Of beauty! Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain—some mad—I heeded not;
But still toil'd on—hoped on—for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.
Pauline.
Why do I cease to hate him!
Mel.
At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,