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I cannot count the changes of my heart, So often has it turned away from things Once idols of its being. They depart— Hopes, fancies, joys, illusions, as if wings Sprang suddenly from all old ties, to start; Or, if they linger longer, life but brings Weariness, hollowness, canker, soil, and stain, Till the heart saith of pleasure, it is pain.

" beautiful she looked! but how pale!" exclaimed Walter Maynard, who had seen Miss Churchill, the night before at the theatre; "and she is not married yet! Is it possible that she can know what it is to have the heart feed upon itself?—to dream,