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For works with similar titles, see The Conqueror.

Literary Gazette, 5th November, 1825, Page 716


My only Love, my early Love,
    My spirit turns to thee;
Ah, wherefore is thy memory
    All that is left for me!

I would I had thy pictured traits;—
    Shadows of what they were,
They could not be like thine, no art
    Could make them half so fair.

Yet, no, I could not bear to meet
    A smile like that of yore,
And think its dear original
    Could smile on me no more.

How often have I watched those eyes,
    Filled with their own deep light,
Their glorious beauty sad, but yet,
    As the heaven they gazed on, bright!

But I shall look on them no more;
    How could they close on me!
Oh, Death, thou art thrice powerful,
    For Love must yield to thee.