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Oh! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone

Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;

This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr’d deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness : In thoughtless throngs and empty noise

I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.


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WELL! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too, For still my heart regards thy weal

Warmly as it was wont to do. Thy husband's bless'd—and 'twill impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass-oh! how my heart

Would hate him if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break, But when the' unconscious infant smiled,

I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
I kiss'd it and repress'd my sighs,

Its father in its face to see ;
But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu! I must away,

While thou art bless'd I'll not repine ! But near thee I can never stay,

My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,

-save hope, the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crime;

We met-and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace,

The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake; Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream!

My foolish heart, be still or break.


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'Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And, whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the freshening blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen,
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes bless'd,
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again;
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face;
And even in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or lover I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go—but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart
Where I can claim the meanest part:
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe;
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.

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