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And with gentle arm in his entwined, And witching cheek on his reclined, The source of his gloom is to her made known, 'T is a dream,—she starts, for she hears her own. But his cares, at least, to the summons yield Of the baying hound and the cheerful field; At the horn's glad peal, he downwards flung From the terraced wall, and the stirrup sprung. And the lady forgot her bodings too, As his steed dash'd aside the morning dew, So graceful he sate, while his flashing eye Seem'd proud of his gallant mastery. But the swell of the horn died away on the air, And the hunter and hounds were no longer there; Then turn'd to her loneliness, With a cloud on her spirit which she might not repress.