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woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and,
upon the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines,
written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my
acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own:--
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine--
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"Onward! "--but o'er the Past
(
Dim gulf! ) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute--motionless--aghast!
For alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o'er.
"No more--no more--no more,"
(
Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
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