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Whom Love taught such deep happiness, And whom Love left so desolate. I drew her on a rocky shore:— Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o'er With white sea-foam;—her arms were bare, Flung upwards in their last despair. Her naked feet the pebbles prest; The tempest-wind sang in her vest: A wild stare in her glassy eyes; White lips, as parched by their hot sighs; And cheek more pallid than the spray, Which, cold and colourless, on it lay:— Just such a statue as should be     Placed ever, Love! beside thy shrine; Warning thy victims of what ills— What burning tears, false god! are thine.