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As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers Bring me hemlock—since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Wil deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee
My heart from these horrors to save : Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave!
As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,
Hast pierc'd through my heart to its core.
By pangs which a smile would dispel?
For torture repay me too well?
Beloved but false Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me,
Written beneath a Picture.
DEAR object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair
Thine image and my tears are left.
"Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true : For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see: The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.