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Pale, delicate,—one looking as the gale That bowed the rose could sweep her from the earth. Yet she had left her home, where every look Had been watched, oh, so tenderly!—and miles, Long weary miles, had wandered. When she came To the dim shadow of the aged beech, She was worn to a shadow; colourless The cheek once dyed by her own mountain-rose. She reached the grave, and died upon the sod! They laid her by her lover:—and her tale Is often on the songs that the guitar Echoes in the lime valleys of Castile!