Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/49

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For who is there can say they will forget? —It is a power no science teaches yet. Oh love, how sacred thy least words should be, When on them hangs such abject misery!

The fountain's music murmur'd through the grove, Like the first plaint that sorrow teaches love; The orange boughs shut out the sultry sky, While their rich scent, as pass'd the Countess by, Came homage like. For hours that chesnut-tree— The only one that grew there—wont to be Her favourite summer-seat;—but now she paced Hurriedly, though 'twas noon; her memory traced Her galling wrongs, and many an evil thought Envy and hatred in her bosom wrought.