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Rh

Long past away! Beneath its shade, A soft green couch the turf has made:— And glad the morning sun is shining On those beneath the boughs reclining. Nearer the fisher drew. He saw The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Like a veil, floating o’er the breast, Where tenderly her head was laid:— And yet her lover’s arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist! But then he marked the youth’s black curls Were dripping wet with foam and blood; And that the maiden’s tresses dark Were heavy with the briny flood! Woe for the wind!—woe for the wave! They sleep the slumber of the grave!