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The harp was echoing the lute, Soft voices answered to the flute, And, like rills in the noontide clear, Beneath the flame-hung gondolier, Shone mirrors peopled with the shades Of stately youths and radiant maids; And on the ear in whispers came Those winged words of soul and flame, Breathed in the dark-eyed beauty's ear By some young love-touched cavalier; Or mixed at times some sound more gay, Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay. Oh, it is sickness at the heart To bear in revelry its part, And yet feel bursting:—not one thing Which has part in its suffering,—