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Till every age, and every land hath given, 
Pilgrims to Pere le Chaise , Love’s flower-wreathed 
path to heaven ? 
Didst thou recall those dark, impassioned eyes, 
Where dazzling intellect with feeling strove ? 
That lofty brow, and lip which scorned disguise, 
Smiling in rapture o’er the spells it wove ? 
And didst thou, then, while musing o’er her doom, 
Shed one fond tear, upon her time-worn tomb ? 
Ah, well I know thy gentle soul o’erflowed, 
With keenest sympathy her woes above ; 
For genuine Virtue never yet hath glowed, 
Where no response was found to genuine love ! 
Such love, alas! as ne’er in woman’s breast, 
Meets aught but sadness, and a sweet unrest 
