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One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale. As was the cold white marble. Can this be     The young—the loved—the happy Rosalie? Alas! alas! her's is a common tale:— She trusted,—as youth ever has believed;— She heard Love's vows—confided—was deceived! Oh, Love! thy essence is thy purity! Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame, And it is gone for ever,—and but leaves A sullied vase—its pure light lost in shame! And Rosalie was loved,—not with that pure And holy passion which can age endure; But loved with wild and self-consuming fires,— A torch which glares—and scorches—and expires.