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Answer'd some youthful cavalier, Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear, To stir, but not to fill the heart;— Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.— Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more. Then step and laugh alike are light, When, like a summer morning bright, Our spirits in their mirth are such, As turn to gold whate'er they touch. The past! 'tis nothing,—childhood's day Has roll'd too recently away, For youth to shed those mournful tears That fill the eye in older years,