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To his German maiden's lowly state; Chose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate: But when his paradise was won, It was not what his fancy had fed upon.

Alas! when angry words begin Their entrance on the lip to win; When sullen eye and flushing cheek Say more than bitterest tone could speak; And look and word, than fire or steel, Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal; And anger digs, with tauntings vain, A gulf it may not pass again.

Her lord is gone to some hunter's rite, Where the red wine-cup passes night;