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And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion, To know the shrine which had our soul's devotion Is that of a false deity!—to look Upon the eyes we worshipped, and brook Their cold reply! Yet, these are all for her!— The rude world's outcast, and love's wanderer! Alas! that love, which is so sweet a thing, Should ever cause guilt, grief, or suffering! Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fall— That dark-eyed girl—had felt their bitterest thrall! She thought upon her love; and there was not In passion's record one green sunny spot— It had been all a madness and a dream, The shadow of a flower on the stream, Which seems, but is not: and then memory turned To her lone mother. How her bosom burned