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XXVII.

On being asked what was the Origin of Love?"

Tor “Origin of Love!” – Ah why

That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may'st read in many an eye

He starts to lifc on seeing thee?
And should'st thou seek his end to know:

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live until I cease to be.

XXVIII.

Remember him, etc.

1.

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved: Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.

2.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be blest:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, represt.

3. Oh! lct me feel that all I lost,

Bat saved thce all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.

4. Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name,

5. Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude,

6.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou had'st loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee!

7. Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be past ! And, that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial be thy last!

8. This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroyed miglit there desiroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of jay.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe.

Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign such scenes forego ,

Where those who feel must surely fall.

10.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pnre; From what even here hath past, may guess.

What there thy bosom must endurc.

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Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.

12. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may mcet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence swect.

13. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt bad made thee mine.

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