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And there a beauty rests, lovely as those Enchanted visions haunting the repose Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut To dream that love they have but dream'd as yet;— But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be A happiness but made for phantasie! And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye Seems as it read in them her destiny. She knew whose hand had gather'd them, she knew Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and hue.

Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known. Ah! little marvel in such clime and age As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage, That we should daily hear that love is fled, And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings dead.