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stranger to happiness. The prospect he was surveying 
was as lovely as ever, but he felt that he was changed, 
though nature was not; the world had deceived his 
youthful expectations, the past was a troubled dream, 
the future had nothing in store for him. Whilst thus 
musing, he cast his eye on the same tuft of speedwell, it 
was blooming as cheerily as before, but the friend who 
had first directed his attention to it was no more. It 
was too much for him—sick at heart, he turned away 
and wept. 
Not for thy azure tint, though bright, 
Or form, so elegantly light, 
I single thee, thou lovely flower, 
From others of the sylvan bower; 
Thou hast a spell to them unknown, 
And this my heart hath captive won. 
Thy name, what is’t ? The very prayer 
Affection breathes for friends most dear; 
Whate’er their pursuits, hopes, or aim, 
Part they or meet, thy magic name 
With silent eloquence may tell 
Her soul’s fond breathings, “ Speed ye well.” 
