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REBECCA.
She looketh on the glittering scene
With an unquiet eye;
The shadow of the wakening heart
Is passing darkly by.
The heart that is a woman’s world,
Her temple and her home,
Which coloureth with itself her cares,
Whence all her joys must come.
All generous feelings nursed the love
That out of pity came;
Womanly kindness, suffering truth,
Might sanctify its claim.
But better had she shared the doom,
She bade from him depart;
Death has no bitterness like life,
Life with a wasted heart.
Proud—beautiful—she boweth down
Beneath one deep despair;
Youth lingers lovely on her cheek,
It only lingers there.
She will command herself, and bear
The doom by Fate assigned;
In natures high as her's, the heart
Is mastered by the mind.
But not the less ’tis desolate,
All lofty thoughts and dreams;
The poetry, with whose deep life
All stronger feeling teems.
These aggravate the ill, and give
A misery of their own;
The gifted spirit suffers much,
To common ones unknown.
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