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As if these waited on thy golden lot,— They blame thee for the faults which thou hast not. Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee The soil and weight of their mortality? How can they hope that ever links will hold Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold? Or worse than even this, how can they think That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air? Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate, And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain, And nought of life is real but its pain; Where the young spirit's high imaginings Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;