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A ship just visible to those long looks With which love gazes. . . . How most sweet it is To bare one lonely treasure, which the heart Can feed upon in secret, which can be A star in sorrow, and a flower in joy; A thought to which all other thoughts refer; A hope, from whence all other hopes arise, Nurs'd in the solitude of happiness! Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is To have the bosom made a Paradise By thee—life lighted by thy rainbow smile! Edward lived in one feeling, one that made Care, toil, and suffering pleasant; and he hailed England, dear England, happy in success, In hope, and love. It was a summer morn— The very season he had left that vale—