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So, when affection yields discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come;

They that are rich in words, must needs discover

They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,

The merit of true passion; With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion,

For knowing not I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Silence in love betrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Since, if my plaints were not to ap- Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,


The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from defect of love, But fear to exceed my duty.

My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most who hides his


And sues for no compassion.

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Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind,
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with
furnace ire,

Swept on, with his wild eyes full of

But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away:

The first that the General saw were the groups

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;

What was done, what to do,glance told him both,


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And, striking his spurs with a terri- All sights were mellowed and all

ble oath,

He dashed down the line mid a storm

of huzzas,

sounds subdued,

The hills seemed further and the

stream sang low,

And the wave of retreat checked its As in a dream the distant woodman

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Where sang the noisy martens of the She had known Sorrow, - he had

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walked with her,

Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust;

And in the dead leaves still she heard

the stir

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Amid all this - in this most cheerless At last the thread was snapped; her


And where the woodbine shed upon the porch

Its crimson leaves, as if the year

stood there

Firing the floor with his inverted torch,―

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The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses,

Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,

Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

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The airs I feel

Around me steal

Received on Freedom's field of Are murmuring to the murmuring


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O happy ship,

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,

To rise and dip,

Are gambolling with the gambolling With the blue crystal at your lip!

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The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,

O happy crew,

My heart with you

Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more

The worldly shore

Unto the smooth, bright sand be- Upbraids me with its loud uproar!


With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,

Or gazes at the far-off ships.

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With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise!

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