We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most—feels the noblest—acts the best.
Life’s but a means unto an end—
Helen (sings.) Oh! love is like the rose,
And a month it may not see,
Ere it withers where it grows—
Rosalie!
I loved thee from afar;
Oh! my heart was lift to thee
Like a glass up to a star—