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And 'midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts pourtray Some home, from tumults far away, Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfilled its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touched his face, With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruined pile! —It is the bard, whose song had power, To lure the maiden from her tower;