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[Hence, cold despair! I do believe that they]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


417

[Hence, cold despair! I do believe that they]

Hence, cold despair! I do believe that they
Who fold a promise, and within the breast
Cherish a faith, shall some time know the rest
Of bliss consummate. This immortal clay
Is tempered in the tears we brush away;
Made fruitful by our smiles; and every test
That love o'ercomes adds plumage to his crest,
And seals the triumph of a future day.
Else would this stormy heart outpour in vain
Its frequent tears; and its wild bursts of joy,
And love unutterable, would but annoy,
Not lighten the full spirit of its pain.
Let us believe these raptures find employ,
And smooth a pathway that may yet be plain.