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And, as above the clouds he soar'd, the light Fell on an inland rock; the radiance bright Shew'd him his long deserted place of rest, And thitherward he flew; his throbbing breast Dwelt on his mate, so gentle, and so wrong'd, And on his memory throng'd The happiness he once at home had known; Then to forgive him earnest to engage her, And for his errors eager to atone, Onward he went; but ah! not yet had flown Fate's sharpest arrow: to decide a wager, Two sportsmen shot at our deserter; down The wind swift wheeling, struggling, still he fell, Close to the margin of the stream that flow'd Beneath the foot of his regretted cell, And the fresh grass was spotted with his blood;