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Rh Or, pass you such poor triumph by; The pride is on your brow, And laughing lip and flashing eye Another hope avow. What dost thou dream of, lovely one? Of hearts that but a look hath won?— Looks shaft-like from a bow, That slay by chance?—Now, out on thee! To think of such cold vanity.

Or do you dream a dearer dream, And can such dream be Love?— No star hath such a fatal beam In yon wide heaven above. Go, waste your first, your sweetest years; Go, wash away your rose with tears; Go, like a wounded dove; The poison'd arrow in your side You cannot bear, you yet must hide!

Mark her, who by yon column lone Leans with dark absent eye; A blush upon her cheek is thrown, 'Tis from the red wreath nigh: She's musing over some sweet word, Long whisper'd but still freshly heard, Some honey flattery; Careless perchance, and lightly spoken, But which the heart too oft hath broken.