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The deep, the true, the honour'd of my song,— If but one worldly soil has been effaced, That song has not been utterly in vain. All true deep feeling purifies the heart. Am I not better by my love for you? At least, I am less selfish; I would give My life to buy you happiness:—Hush, hush! I must not let you know how much I love,— So to my tale.—'Twas on an eve like this, When purple shadows floated round, and light, Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell, Like life, for that fair gallery was fill'd With statues, each one an eternity Of thought and beauty: there were lovely shapes, And noble ones; some which the poet's song Had touch'd with its own immortality;