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Love, Love! thou passionate in joy and woe! And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below— Here, where bright things must die? Oh, thou! that wildly worshipping, dost shed On the frail altar of a mortal head Gifts of infinity!

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, Still round thy precious things; Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, Here, where the blight hath wings.

And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, So in thy prescient breast Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill To the low footstep of each coming ill; —Oh! canst Thou dream of rest?