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It was spell-bound; coldly that flower repress'd Sweet hopes,—ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd. Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief recurs— That rose flung down because that rose was hers! And at the thought paleness in blushes fled, Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read? Oh! better perish, than endure that thought. She started from her couch; when her eye caught The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took Part in her votary's suffering; the look Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness, Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess. turn'd away, she might not bear To meet such holy brow, such placid air, At least not yet; for she must teach her breast A lesson of submission, if not rest,