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Alas, how bitter are the wrongs of love Life has no other sorrow so acute: For love is made of every fine emotion, Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts; It looketh to the stars, and dreams of Heaven; It nestles 'mid the flowers, and sweetens earth. Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too: It doth exalt another o'er itself, With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise That which it worships; yet is fain to win The idol to its lone and lowly home Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck When such hopes perish. From that moment, life Has in its depths a well of bitterness, For which there is no healing.

Marchmont was left alone in the grotto with its ill-fated master, and every kindly feeling in her nature was in arms. Affecting not to have noticed what passed, she approached where Pope stood,—speechless, pale with anger, and