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And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; Yet all deny their master,—who will own His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?

'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside The masque and mantle that love wears from pride, How much would be, we now so little guess, Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess. The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,— And for a cloak what is there that can be So difficult to pierce as gaiety? Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow Seems to hide something it would not avow; But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest, These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,