Page:Records of Woman.pdf/317

Rh

Perchance all vainly lavish'd,   Its other love had been, And where it trusted, nought remain'd   But thorns on which to lean.

Far better then to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion'd grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument, Cast in affection's mould.

Love, human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust!