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She murmur'd over many a snatch of song That might to her own feelings now belong; She thought upon old histories she had read, And placed herself in each high heroine's stead, Then woke her lute,—oh! there is little known Of music's power till aided by love's own. And this is happiness: oh! love will last When all that made it happiness is past,— When all its hopes are as the glittering toys Time present offers, time to come destroys,— When they have been too often crush'd to earth, For further blindness to their little worth,— When fond illusions have dropt one by one, Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,— And this is all what time will ever bring.