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Was 't in my childhood, boyhood, manhood?
-Oh! In all of them I loved thee! And were I now To live the span of my first life, twice told, And then to wither, thou surviving me, And yet I lived in thy sweet memory, Then might'st thou say of me, “ He loved
me once ; But that was all his life!”
Countess.-'Twas heart for heart! I loved thee ever! Yes! the passion now Thrills on the woman's tongue; the girl's had
told thee, Had I been bold as fond; for even then I saw thy worth, but did not see thy station, Till others, not so well affected toward thee, Reveal'd it to me by their cold regards. I could not help my nature. From that time Two passions strove in my divided soul For mastery
scorn of thy station, love For thee-each feeding on the other's hate And growing stronger; till I thought their
strife Would shake my frame to dissolution! Yes!
Oh, Huon! when my brow sat cloudy oft O'er my cold eye,
that look'd askant at thee, Thou little thought what friend there was
within Would make that brow clear as a summer
sky, That eye, bright glowing as a summer's sun, To kindle thee—as they, their world, with
life, And health, and wealth, and gladness.
J. S. KNOWLES.
Of all flowers,
comes near her,
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UN
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove, A maid, whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love :
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown,--and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be :
The difference to me!
SONNET. Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, How here I linger in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. Say, that, from ev'ry joy of life remote, At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note Who pours like me, her solitary song. Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing
sigh, Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, Court the lone hour when silence stills the
grove, And heave the sigh of Memory and of Love.
That now she knows,
Tell her that's young,
That hadst thou sprung
Small is the worth
Bid her come forth,
Then die ! that she
May read in thee;
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away ?