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 No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there!

Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness borne! Far other lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air, Parts on thy brow the sunny hair; Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide, Bears thy lov'd warrior to his bride, He, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays.

He came—that youthful chief—he came That favour'd lord of love and fame! His step was hurried—as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express'd The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious—doubt, and dread, And a stern grief, might there be read; Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien Seem'd struggling to be still unseen.