III. FROM FREDERICK.
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he multitude of voices blitheOf early day, the hissing scytheAcross the dew drawn and withdrawn,The noisy peacock on the lawn,These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam,This morning, chased the sweetest dreamThat e'er shed penitential graceOn life's forgetful commonplace;Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spellTo which I woke to say farewell.Noon finds me many a mile removedFrom her who must not be beloved;And us the waste sea soon shall part,Heaving for aye, without a heart!Mother, what need to warn me so?_I_ love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no.I view, enchanted, from afar,And love her as I love a star.For, not to speak of colder fear,Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear,Under her life's gay progress hurl'd.The wheels of the preponderant world,Set sharp with swords that fool to slayWho blunders from a poor byway,To covet beauty with a crownOf earthly blessing added on;And she's so much, it seems to me,Beyond all women womanly,I dread to think how he should fareWho came so near as to despair.
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