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Its own pure sympathies?—can fling The poison'd arrow from the string In utter heartlessness around, And mock, or think not of the wound? And thus can woman barter all That makes and gilds her gentle thrall,— The blush which should be like the one White violets hide from the sun,— The soft, low sighs, like those which breathe In secret from a twilight wreath,— The smile like a bright lamp, whose shine Is vow'd but only to one shrine; All these sweet spells,—and can they be Weapons of reckless vanity? And woman, in whose gentle heart From all save its sweet self apart,