RECORDS OF A HEART. 1*5 



Oh ! for one hour, one blissful hour, 



Like those my young heart knew 

 When all my dreams of future joy 



From love their coloring drew ; 

 I deemed affection then might be 

 The very life of life to me, — 

 Alas ! 'twas source of every ill, 

 And yet, — " the cure is bitterer still" ! 



Oh ! fearful is the untamed strength 



Of woman's love, combined 

 With all the spirit's high-wrought powers, 



The energies of mind : 

 Such deep devotedness as feels 

 The Indian, when he humbly kneels 

 Before his idol's car to meet 

 A death of rapture at his feet, — 

 Such love was mine ; though fraught with ill. 

 The cure, — " the cure is bitterer still." 



Oh ! grief beyond all other griefs ! 



To feel the swift decay 

 Of love and hope within the heart 



Ere youth be passed away ; — 

 To know that life must henceforth be 

 A voyage o'er a tideless sea, 

 No ebb or flow of hopes or fears, 

 To vary the dull waste of years ; — 

 Oh ! Love may be life's chiefest ill, 

 But ah ! " the cure is bitterer still." 



Does not this breathe the intensity of sorrow and tenderness ? 

 Poof Marguerite, her heart had awakened to the glad morning 



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