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Rh When for one hour we parted,—do not frown: I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken: But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token, Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me, And not my scorned self who prayed to thee.

Is it a dream, or do I see And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years Arise, and bring forbidden tears; And my o'erburthened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee: mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief: Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due,