Yet would I peril for such joys again,
Life—time—eternity—but all is vain!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
Farewell! I ask thee not if day by day
Thy heart hath cast its young romance away;
I could not doubt thy truth—I ask thee not
If Clara’s image be at last forgot;
O! love like ours, impetuous, wild and high,
Drinks at one draught the spirit’s fountains dry!