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Blithe prisoner 'scaping form and state, Her nature warring with her fate. Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek, Her fairy hand was all too weak For regal sceptre; never meant To rule more than the music sent From a light lute, whose gentle tone Was as an echo to her own.

But bent and sadden'd is her gaze, Her heart is gone to other days; When summer buds around her hair Were all the crown she had to wear, And they were twined by him who now Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow; Her playmate and her early friend. And thus can young affection end!