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48 Even in that lonely hour when most it feels,

And, to itself, all—all that self reveals,

No single passion, and no ruling thought

That leaves the rest as once, unseen, unsought,

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews—

All rushing through their thousand avenues—

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret,

Endanger'd glory, life itself beset;

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate

Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate;

The hopeless past—the hasting future driven

Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven;

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remembered not

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot;

Things light or lovely in their acted time,

But now to stern reflection each a crime;

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd,

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd—

All—in a word—from which all eyes must start,

That opening sepulchre—the naked heart

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake,

To snatch the mirror from the soul—and break.