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And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze, O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze; No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath, But a token of fever, at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away, With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day, And brought to die of the burning dreams That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land— She held its lyre with a trembling hand, Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke, And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow, Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low; But it swell'd into deeper power ere long, As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.