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 In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you— 'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been.

O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

No one.

Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree