Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1834.pdf/100

Rh

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But changed as I and thou art changed, Or rather me alone, I never had your heart—but mine, Alas! was all your own.

Oh, magic of a tone and word, Loved all too long and well. I cannot close my heart and ear Against their faithless spell—

I know them false, I know them vain, And yet I listen on— And say them to myself again, Long after thou art gone.

I make myself my own deceit, I know it is a dream, But one that from my earliest youth Has coloured life’s deep stream;

Frail colours flung in vain, but yet A thousand times more dear Than any actual happiness That ever brightened here.

The dear, the long, the dreaming hours That I have past with thee, When thou hadst not a single thought Of how thou wert with me—

I heard thy voice—I spoke again— I gazed upon thy face, And never scene of breathing life Could leave a deeper trace,

Than all that fancy conjured up, And made thee look and say, Till I have loathed reality, That chased such dream away.

Now, out upon this foolishness, Thy heart it is not mine; And, knowing this, how can I waste My very soul on thine?

Alas! I have no power to choose, Love is not at my will; I say I must be careless, cold, But find I love thee still.