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And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours To send no busy dream!—She had not learn'd Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd, In weariness from life: then came th’ unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps; until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers?—Oh! could strangers raise the head Gently as hers was rais'd?—did strangers shed The kindly tears which bath'd that feverish brow And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow? Something was there, that thro' the lingering night Outwatches patiently the taper's light,