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 All careless where its course may tend, So that it leads but to an end. I fear my fate too much to crave More than it must bestow—the grave.

  from that hour sought A refuge from each mournful thought In sad but soothing smile; And listening what might well beguile The spirit from its last recess Of dark and silent wretchedness. He spoke of, and he tried To rouse her father into pride Of her fair beauty; rather strove To waken hope yet more than love. 