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There is no darkness like the cloud of mind
On grief's vain eye-the blindest of the blind,
Which may not, dare not see, but turns aside
To blackest shade, nor will endure a guide.

BYRON'S Corsair.

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears.

BYRON'S Dream.

For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.


The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears:
The flower is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.

The heavy sigh,

Scorr's Lady of the Lake.

The tear in the half-open'd eye,

The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd
That grief was busy in his breast.

SCOTT'S Rokeby.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser-care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear!

He hung his head-each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept. From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence !

In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt may know!


MOORE'S Lalla Rookh.

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