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To my heart happiness — the faithless dower 
Of Beauty too, is worthless as a flower. 
To win attachment each bright spell I Ve tided, 
Yet none have loved me since my mother died! 
And this it is to be exalted — high — 
And wake in thoughtless breasts the envious sigh, 
I am ‘a thing enskied,’ and it might seem, 
Men view me as the phantom of a dream, 
Or picture, such as my own pencil wrought 
In other days — They gaze — and gaze — ad¬ 
miring 
My beauty — even while my name hath caught 
The ear of many, for a time inspiring 
Astonishment — that one so fair, so bright, 
Should stand thus lonely in her spirit’s might — 
And — coldly then they’ve turned away — nor 
deemed 
I was not all the statue that I seemed! 
