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The blessing from her voice, the very tone Of her "Good-night" might breathe from boyhood gone!— He started and look'd up:—thick cypress boughs Full of strange sound, wav'd o'er him, darkly red In the broad stormy firelight;—savage brows, With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread, Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look'd thro' the branches as thro' dungeon bars, Shedding no hope.—He knew, he felt his doom— Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom That happy hall in England!—Idle fear! Would the winds tell it?—Who might dream or hear The secret of the forests?—To the stake They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove His father's spirit in his breast to wake, Trusting to die in silence! He, the love Of many hearts! the fondly rear'd,—the fair, Gladdening all eyes to see!—And fetter'd there