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Slight change there was in him: perchance his brow Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now; Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd, Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest; For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all In which it has no part, or one of gall. I will say that he loved her, but say not That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot; For ever in man's bosom will man's pride An equal empire with his love divide.

It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute, Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute With snatches of sad song; paced His stately hall, and much might there be traced What were the workings of its owner's mind. Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,