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Like the compressure of a coiled boa, Loathly, but irresistible. A bride! It cannot be!—altho' her unveil'd face Was of surprising beauty—O how lovely! Yet he bestow'd on her but frigid praise, And still continued to repress my ardour, Whene'er I spoke of the fair mountain maid, With silent stern reserve.—Is this like love? It is not natural. Ah! but it is; It is too natural,—deep subtle nature. How was my idiot soul so far beguiled That I ne'er thought of this? Yes, yes, he loves her! Loves her whom I so well—so dearly love, That every female image but her own Is from my heart effaced, like curling mists That, rising from the vale, cling for a while To the tall cliff's brown breast, till the warm sun Dissolves them utterly.—'T is so; ev'n she Whom I have thought of, dreamt of, talk'd of,—ay, And talk'd to, though in absence, as a thing Present and conscious of my words, and living, Like the pure air around me, every where. (After a pause.) And he must have this creature of perfection!