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A league of sorrow and of vanity, Built on a future which will never be!

And yet I would resign the praise that now Makes my cheek crimson, and my pulses beat, Could I but deem that when my hand is cold, And my lip passionless, my songs would be Number'd mid the young poet's first delights; Read by the dark-eyed maiden in an hour Of moonlight, till her cheek shone with its tears; And murmur'd by the lover when his suit Calls upon poetry to breathe of love. I do not hope a sunshine burst of fame, My lyre asks but a wreath of fragile flowers. I have told passionate tales of breaking hearts, Of young cheeks fading even before the rose;