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Thou wilt join in the midnight saraband, With thy graceful smile, and thy whisper bland; And to many another thou wilt be All thou once wert to only me.

I might have known what would be my share— Silent suffering, and secret care; I might have known my woman's part— A faded cheek, and a rifled heart.

Often I'd read in the minstrel-tale, How bright eyes grow dim, and red lips pale; Of the tears that wail the fond maiden's lot, But I loved thee, and all but my love forgot.

And must this be, oh, heart of mine! Why art thou not too proud to pine? Again I will wreathe my raven hair, With the red-rose flowers it was wont to wear;

Again I will enter my father's hall; Again be the gayest and gladdest of all; Like the falcon that soars at her highest bound, Though her bosom bear in it its red death-wound!

But what boots it to teach my heart a task So vain as weeping behind a mask, Broken, with only ruins to hide, Little it recks of the show of pride.