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52 When the flame of love is kindled first,
 * ’Tis the fire-fly’s light at even,

’Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
 * In the blue of the summer heaven.

A breath can bid it burn no more,
 * Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o’er
 * Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
 * A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew
 * That fell in its first warm hour,

’Tis the flame that curls round the martyr’s head,
 * Whose task is to destroy;

’Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,
 * Whose light but darkens joy.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
 * The infant buds of Love,

And tread his glowing fire to earth,
 * Ere ’tis dark in clouds above;

Cherish no more a cypress-tree
 * To shade thy future years,

Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
 * Quenched only with thy tears.