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For they have brought me in their glittering train, 
Much of deep pleasure, but a world of pain. 
Sweetly they soothe me in the hour of grief— 
Yet ’tis a selfish joy e’en then, they throw 
Over my saddened heart — delusive — brief— 
And vanishing — like starlight’s milder glow,— 
For in my joys as in my griefs — alone — 
No bosom thrills responsive to my own! 
Of all the crowds this busy world contains, 
None join my mirth, or suffer in my pains! 
Ah, gentle Girl, thou enviest gifts like mine! 
Think what a dearer, holier boon, is thine! 
Thy dove-like meekness tints affection’s cheek, 
With purer language than the lips may speak; 
Fame is my proud inheritance — thine own 
Is Love — the noblest gift of bounteous Heaven. 
O’er me, alas! it hath but vainly thrown 
The spells of Genius. Think not they have 
given 
