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42 Most vainly must my weary brain implore Its long lost flattery now: I wake to weep, And sit through the long day gnawing the core Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, keep, Since none in what I feel take pain or pleasure, To my own soul its self-consuming treasure."

He dwelt beside me near the sea: And oft in evening did we meet, When the waves, beneath the starlight, flee O'er the yellow sands with silver feet, And talked: our talk was sad and sweet, Till slowly from his mien there passed The desolation which it spoke; And smiles,—as when the lightning's blast Has parched some heaven-delighting oak, The next spring shews leaves pale and rare, But like flowers delicate and fair, On its rent boughs,—again arrayed His countenance in tender light: