Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/276

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My songs have been the mournful history Of woman's tenderness and woman's tears; I have touch'd but the spirit's gentlest chords,— Surely the fittest for my maiden hand;— And in their truth my immortality.

Thou lovely and lone star, whose silver light, Like music o'er the waters, steals along The soften'd atmosphere; pale star, to thee I dedicate the lyre, whose influence I would have sink upon the heart like thine.

In such an hour as this, the bosom turns Back to its early feelings; man forgets His stern ambition and his worldly cares, And woman loathes the petty vanities