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There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train, Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn, When thy heart's core had quivered to the pain Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn; When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth Than all those costly balms of Araby; Then was there joy, a song of joy in Heaven, For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!