The Magic Mirror.

A poem by Thomas Moore

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
"To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
"Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
"She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
"Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
"Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!--
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

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