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And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse; And veil the workings of each darker feeling, Deep in his soul concentrating its force: But yet, he loves—Oh! who hath loved, nor known Affection's power exalt the bosom all its own?

The days roll on—and still Bianca's lot Seems as a path of Eden—Thou mightst deem That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream; And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear, It sheds but grace more intellectual there.

A few short years, and all is changed—her fate Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o'ercast. —Have jealous doubts transformed to wrath and hate, The love whose glow Expression's power surpassed? Lo! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.