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A philosopher being asked what was the first thing necessary to win the love of a woman, answered, Opportunity!
A spirit pure as hers,
Is always pure, even while it errs:
As sunshine, broken in the rill,
Though turned astray, is sunshine still.
Alas! I how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off.
Alas! too well,. too well they know
The pain, the penitence, the woe
That passion brings down on the best,
The wisest and the loveliest.
Allowing everything that can be claimed for the superior patience and self-command of women, still the main solution of their enduring pain better than men is their having less physical sensibility.
And be their rest unmov'd
By the white moonlight's dazzling power:
None, but the loving and belov'd,
Should be awake at this sweet hour.
And conscience, truth and honesty are made
To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
And then her look--Oh, where's the heart so wise
Could, unbewilder'd, meet those matchless eyes?
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,
Like those of angels.
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
Angel of light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
Assurance never failed to get admission into the houses of the great.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away!
Thou would'st still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still!
Better to dwell in freedom's hall,
With a cold damp floor and mouldering wall,
Than bow the head and bend the knee
In the proudest palace of slaverie.
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
Bliss itself is not worth having,
If we're by compulsion blest.
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!
Tho' the herd hath fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here is still the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the Last!
Divine Providence has spread her table everywhere, not with a juiceless green carpet, but with succulent herbage and nourishing grass, upon which most beasts feed.
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Enough, that we are parted--that there rolls
A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
As hell from heaven, to all eternity!
Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore,
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,
I sigh for England--oh! these weary feet
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.
Gradual as the snow, at heaven's breath, melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, her lids unclosed, and the bright eyes were seen.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish: earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last.
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