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 image pending 110

For the Literary Magazine.

to laura, offended.

Three days had passed with linger-
    ing steps away,
   While I to narrow verge confined,
To body's pain and solitude a prey,
   And sad unrest of mind.

The fourth serene and painless rose,
   I hie me to thy door;
It opens, but thy altered aspect shews
   An open heart no more.

A stranger I, thou hail'd'st me Friend
    no more;
   Nor welcome sweet bestowed:
No questions that the absent past ex-
    plore,
   In tender accents flow'd.

A brow, alas! severely bent, was
    thine;
   Reluctant was thy hand;
Thy eyes, that so serenely us'd to
    shine,
   Their sternest glance command.

To tedious exile from thy converse, I,
   By sickly blasts consigned,
A respite from the long-drawn, lonely
    sigh,
   At some time hoped to find.

Ah, Laura, wilt thou snatch that hope
    away?
   And lost must I believe thee?
Not merely take from life its dearest
    stay
   Of life itself bereave me.
W.

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