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wild wind, bring me back a sound; I listen and in vain; I might, but for my beating heart, Have heard his step again.

He flung him on his chestnut steed; How gallantly he rides! How well his graceful Arab seems To know the hand that guides!

Why did he not look back? 'Tis well— He must not meet my gaze; I shame me of the anxious heart That so itself betrays.

Lie there, oh rose! it was his hand That flung thee careless by; I would not change a single thing That may have met his eye.