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The cheek, so snowy-tinctured, now is bronzed With wintry storms, and summer's heat; yet still I am, I am Rosmunda! Oh, Giovanni, 'Scaped from the wave, released from slavery, Wilt thou deny the haven of thine arms To the poor shipwrecked wanderer? Away! 'Tis mockery all; the grave must hold its dead, Or tombs will gape, the denizens of earth Be strangely mingled with the phantom forms Of spirits. Most unnatural union; We'll not endure it.—Darkness, the cold cave Of ocean is thy dwelling-place, not light, And air, and sunshine— Oh, beloved Giovanni! Speak not so wildly; 'tis thy living wife, Thy lost Rosmunda: by a miracle We both were saved. It was a happier fate