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Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken?—Come to me! I am thine own.—Have trusted hearts prov'd false? Flatterers deceiv'd thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice had power To shake me with a thrill of happiness By one kind tone?—to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou—oh! thou didst throw That crush'd affection back upon my heart;— Yet come to me!—it died not.

knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Thro' the stain'd window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow,