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And this, then, is love's ending. It is like The history of some fair southern clime: Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers, Its fruits of gold—summer's regality; And sleep and odours float upon the air, Making it heavy with its own delight. At length the subterranean element Bursts from its secret solitude, and lays All waste before it. The red lava stream Sweeps like a pestilence: and that which was A garden for some fairy tale's young queen Is one wild desert, lost in burning sand. Thus it is with the heart. Love lights it up With one rich flush of beauty. Mark the end: Hopes that have quarrelled even with themselves, And joys that make a bitter memory; While the heart, scorched and withered, and o'erwhelmed By passion's earthquake, loathes the name of love.

stood for a few moments gazing on the picture; when Lord Norbourne exclaimed, as