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58 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropped and sparkles o'er his chain?

The tear most sacred—shed for others' pain—

That starts at once—bright—pure—from Pity's mine,

Already polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—

In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

To save—subdue—at once her spear and shield—

Avoid it—Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven,

By this—how many lose not earth—but heaven!

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!

XVI.

'Tis morn—and o'er his alter'd features play

The beams—without the hope of yesterday.—