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all is not lost, all is ultimately retrievable. 2em

Love's softest images spring up anew in solitude. The remembrance of those emotions, which the first blush of conscious tenderness, the first gent'e pressure of the hand, the first dread of interruption create, recurs incessantly. Time, it is said, extinguishes the flame of love; but solitude renews the fire, and calls forth those agents which lie long concealed, and only wait a favourable moment to display their powers. The whole course of youthful feeling again beams forth; and the mind—delicious recollection!—fondly retracing the first affection of the hearl, fills the bosom with an indelible sense of those high extasies which, for the first time, proclaim that happy discovery, that fortunate moment when two lovers first discover their mutual fondness.