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And sometimes Pity—soft and deep, And quivering through a tear; Even as if Love in Heaven could weep, For Grief left drooping here.

And oh! my spirit needs that balm, Needs it 'midst fitful mirth; And in the night-hour's haunted calm, And by the lonely hearth.

Look on me thus, when hollow praise Hath made the weary pine For one true tone of other days, One glance of love like thine!

Look on me thus, when sudden glee Bears my quick heart along, On wings that struggle to be free, As bursts of skylark song.