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Oh, heart of mine! turn from the revellers before thee; What part hast thou in them, or have they in thee? What was the feeling that too soon came o'er thee?— Weariness ever that feeling must be.

Praise—flattery—opiates the meanest, yet sweetest, Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream'd? Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou meetest, Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd?

O for some island far off in the ocean, Where never a footstep has press'd but mine own; With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, the lone!