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Who, that had looked on her that morn, Could dream of all her heart had borne? Her cheek was red, but who could know 'T was flushing with the strife below? Her eye was bright, but who could tell It shone with tears she strove to quell? Her voice was gay, her step was light, And beaming, beautiful, and bright: It was as if life could confer Nothing but happiness on her. Ah! who could think that all so fair Was semblance, and but misery there!