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For the heart has its spring of bud and bloom Even as has the year,—it found a home For all its young affections, gentle thoughts, In his true maiden's bosom; and the life He dream'd of was indeed a dream—'twas made Of quiet happiness: but forth he went Into the wild world's tumult. As the bloom Fades from the face of nature, so the gloss Of his warm feelings faded with their freshness; Ambition took the place of Love, and Hope Fed upon fiery thoughts, aspiring aims; And the bold warrior, favourite of his king, If that he thought of his first tenderness, Thought of it but with scorn, or vain excuse, And in her uncomplaining silence read But what he wish'd,—oblivion; and at last