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To her a wreath he bid me take, Such as in our fair garden wake Love's hopes and fears,—oh! suiting well Such gentle messages to tell. That wreath I to the lady brought, I found her in her hall alone, So changed, your sculptors never wrought A form in monumental stone So cold, so pale. The large dark eye Shone strangely o'er the marble cheek; The lips were parted, yet no sigh Seem’d there of breathing life to speak; The picture at whose feet she knelt, The maiden Mother and her Child, The hues which on that canvass dwelt, With more of human likeness smiled.