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And that pale forehead, surely care Has graved an early lesson there.

They roved through many a garden scene, Where other, happier days had been; And soon had told his all Of hopes, like stars but bright to fall; Of feelings blighted, changed, and driven Like exiles from their native heaven; And of an aimless sword, a lute Whose chords were now uncharm'd and mute. But tender blandishing Was as the April rays, that fling A rainbow till the thickest rain Melts into blue and light again.