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 And hold their strange and secret power, Even on pleasure’s golden hour. I had been looking on the river, Half-marvelling to think that ever Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where All seemed so gentle and so fair: And mingled with these thoughts there came A tale, just one that Memory keeps— Forgotten music, still some chance Vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps!

 A MOORISH ROMANCE. through the pomegranate groves Came the gentle song of the doves; Shone the fruit in the evening light, Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright; 