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To lisp thy name shall learn,
Though now they can but murmur soft

And answering smiles return.
In gentle words of love they spoke,

And I was very sure,
That all thy looks were eloquent,
With feeling high and pure.

I know that thou art beautiful,

For thou hast told me so,
In a sweet language that I learned

Of Flora long ago.
Thou'st sent me from thy garden bower

The latest rosebud there,
Its blush was eloquent, its leaves

Were rise with meaning rare;
It told of virgin bloom and hope,

And modesty and truth:
Ah! what so fit as fragrant flowers

To emblem sunny youth?
It touched a weary stranger's heart,

That one she had not known,
Could give a kindly thought to her

In sadness and alone;
It minded her of days gone by,

When Love's untiring hand
Wove blossoms for her youthful brow,


In many a graceful band. Ah! far away from home and friends,

That heart still warmly beats With something of its olden joy,

When such as thou she meets !
And oft in future dreams shall rise

The eye and glossy curl,
The soft rose-bloom and dimple

Of the sweet-voiced English girl !



Yes! still I love thee :-Time, who sets

His signet on my brow,
And dims my sunken eye, forgets

The heart he could not bow ;Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas ! that little knows

How love may sometimes last; Like sunshine wasting in the skies,

When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose,

Within its robe of light,
Can never touch a leaf that blows,

Though seeming to the sight;
And yet it still will linger there,
Like hopeless love without despair,-

A snow-drop in the sun!
A moment finely exquisite,

Alas! but only one.

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I would not have thy married heart

Think momently of me,-
Nor would I tear the cords apart,

That bind me so to thee;
No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,
Like dew upon the roses wild,

I would not have thee know,
The stream that seems to thee so still,
Has such a tide below!

Enough! that in delicious dreams,

I see thee and forget-
Enough, that when the morning beams,

I feel my eyelids wet!
Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall
The darkness, for creation's pall,

To meet thee,—and to love,-
I would not shrink from aught below,

Nor ask for more above.

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Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope,
Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly,
With the cool sound of breezes in the beech,
Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear
No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up
From the red mould and slimy roots of earth,
Thou flashest through the sun. The mountain air,
In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew
That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God
Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright.

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