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One spring-morn rose, And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid— Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose From the fierce noon—a dark-hair'd peasant maid: Who could reveal her story?—That still face Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye— For death was on its lids—fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight?—Her kindred's place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been!—She grasp'd a wreath— The tomb's last garland!—This was love in death!