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There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, Thro' the dim cedar shade; the step of one That started at a leaf, of one that fled, Of one that panted with some secret dread:— What did Imelda there? She sought the scene Where love so late with youth and hope had been; Bodings were on her soul—a shuddering thrill Ran thro' each vein, when first the Naiad's rill Met her with melody—sweet sounds and low; We hear them yet, they live along its flow— Her voice is music lost! The fountain-side She gain'd—the wave flash'd forth 'twas darkly dyed Ev'n as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge, A youth, a graceful youth. "Oh! dost thou sleep? "Azzo!" she cried, "my Azzo! is this rest?" But then her low tones falter’d:—"On thy breast