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These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
And they have done their duty well,
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
THINE eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation—where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought— I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn―
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.
HY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
leams like a seraph from the sky descending,
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!