SEMELE.
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o praise to me!My joy 'twas to be nothing but the glassThro' which the general boon of Heaven should pass,To focus upon thee.Nor is't thy blameThou first should'st glow, and, after, fade i' the flame.It takes more mightThan God has given thee, Dear, so long to feel delight.Shall I, alas,Reproach thee with thy change and my regret?Blind fumblers that we beAbout the portals of felicity!The wind of words would scatter, tears would washQuite out the little heatBeneath the silent and chill-seeming ash,Perchance, still slumbering sweet.
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