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Envy's dire forebodings slighting,
Deaf alike to friendship's voice;
Pride elating—hope delighting,
I alone was Harold's choice.

Sad distinction—dear bought glory!
Was that heart's unstable prize;
Now the theme of gossip story,
Thus exposed to vulgar eyes.

Yet 'twas not the fond illusion
Fame's bright halo o'er thee spread;
Other dreams of dear delusion,
Faith and young affection led.

Not a suppliant world around me,
Could have lured me from thy side;
No! the tender bands that bound me,
Hands but thine could ne'er divide.

"But 'tis done"—the arm that held me
Late the cherished gift of heaven,
Now unclasps no more to shield me,
And—but no! thou art forgiven.

Never can the heart forget thee,
Which has felt a love like mine;
Nor our smiling infant let me,
While she bears those eyes of thine.