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A flush of beauty is upon the sky— Eve's last warm blushes—like the crimson dye The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes meet The graceful lover's, sighing at her feet. And there were sound of music on the breeze, And perfume shaken from the citron trees; While the dark chesnuts caught a golden ray On their green leaves, the last bright gift of day; And peasants dancing gaily in the shade To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made An echo fit to the glad voices singing. The twilight spirit his sweet urn is flinging Of dew upon the lime and orange-stems, And giving to the rose pearl diadems. There is a pilgrim by that old grey tree, With head upon her hand, bent mournfully;