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Rh

The wreath which, when my humble song Was breathed to careless ears in vain, Thou fondly said'st should soon belong To my unprized unvalued strain, Is twined for me—upon my brow In many a knot and cluster fair Its blooming buds and blossoms glow; And thou art———where?

Not thine the lips that whisper praise, Not thine the bright and beaming eye Turning on mine its ardent gaze, Not thine the hope, not thine the sigh. Another breathes a tender tale, Another hovers round my chair, Another trusts he may prevail, For thou art———where?