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Adele! a name that kindled in the breast

Of France's first-born of the fairest Muse

A flame in which a thousand colors fuse

And shame the April rainbows of the West;

But I can only stand upon the crest

Of Song's most sacred Mount and bring excuse

That I have begged, and since the gods refuse,

I steal, and with the theft I thee invest,

A Sun or Moon of Song for all my oceans

Of purest love, an ornament at best,—

A bunch of stars—a wreath for my emotions;

But if the gods with sisters dear are blest,

To me they all must come in joy or sorrow,

From me they all must steal, or beg, or borrow.