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Though fair her arm as the moonlight, Others might raise an arm as white; Though light her feet as Music's fall, Others might be as musical; But where were such dark eyes as hers? So tender, yet withal so bright, As the dark orbs had in their smile Mingled the light of day and night. And where was the wild grace which shed A loveliness o'er every tread, A beauty shining through the whole, Something which spoke of heart and soul. The Almas had pass'd lightly on, The armed ranks, the crowd, were gone, Yet gazed on the square As she he sought still glided there,—