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The poet with immortal words, whose heart I shared with beauty; or the patriot, Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile His recompense amid the toil which shaped A nation's destiny: these, such as these, The glorified—the passionate—the brave— In these I might have found the head and heart I could have worshipp'd. Where are such as these? —Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance Pleasant with graceful flatteries; whose words A passing moment might light up my cheek, But haunted not my solitude. The fault Has been my own; perhaps I ask'd too much:— Yet let me say, what firmly I believe, Love can be—ay, and is. I held that Love Which chooseth from a thousand only one,