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While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold—the autumn forest's hue— Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread By painting's touch around some holy head, Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervour lived! And yet what wo. Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn Rose thro' each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning thro' the grass, like sounds in dreams,