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Rh

The dance seemed sad, and the festival dim, If her hand was unclaimed by him; Waked she her lute, if it breathed not his name? Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him came? No flowers, no smiles, were on life's dull tide, When was not by his ' side. And yet they parted! Still there clings As earth-stain to the fairest things; And love, that most delicious gift Upon life's shrine of sorrow left, Has its own share of suffering: A shade falls from its radiant wing, A spot steals o'er its sunny brow, Fades the rose-lip's witching glow. 'Tis well,—for earth were too like heaven, If length of life to love were given.