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With boding fears,

With sighs and tears,

Lest bliss should not last? What though Fortune frown on us, or friends prove

unkind, We can never be poor, love, with wealth of the mind; We can never be lonely—though all should depart, Whilst we live in the pulse-peopled world of the heart.

II.

What can there be to grieve thee?
Thou know'st I'll ne'er deceive thee;

Am I not thine ?

Then why repine ?
Say, what wouldst thou more?
Can fate have power to harm thee?
Can life's dark ills alarm thee?

Am I not near

To shield thee, dear?
Say, what wouldst thou more?

Then a truce to all gloom, we'll be cheerful and gay,
Nor welcome the griefs that are yet on their way;
Let them come, at their leisure, we'll smile while we

may, And, in spite of to-morrow, be happy to-day !

IX.

AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE?

I.

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire ?

Ah! beware the spell,

Some have proved too well, Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II.

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,

That just lends its light;

But when sorrow's night Is deepest—withdraws its beam, Mary!

III.

'Tis a passionate sense refined, That spells the enthusiast's mind;

That bids him cope

With life's storms, and hope
For a haven he never may find, Mary!

IV.

As the hues of the mimic bow,
Arching the cataract's brow,

Though they sweetly shine,

And seem half divine,
Are but types of the chaos below, Mary!

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So the glittering tints that rest,
On Genius' star-bright crest,

May lovelily glow,

While despair and woe Hold their strife in his lonely breast, Mary!

VI.

Some have envied the Minstrel's art,
Unknowing his oft-felt smart;

But this never might be,

Could they once but see
A minstrel's inmost heart, Mary!

VII.

It hath fibres so finely wrought,
And depths with such feelings fraught,
That a word

may

break Or to melody wake Each chord in that Lyre of thought, Mary!

VIII.

Even when Pleasure her fingers flings
O’er its most attenuate strings,

In the passionate swells

Which her touch compels, It oft wails while to gladness it rings, Mary !

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