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He was an exile with a ghastly smile, And murmured not—but rose and left the city. He went on silently, until he came To where a little hill rose, covered o'er With lemon shrubs and golden oranges: The windows of the palace where she dwelt— His so loved —o'erlooked the place. There was some gorgeous fête there, for the light Streamed through the lattices, and a far sound Of lute, and dance, and song, came echoing. The wanderer hid his face; but form his brow His hands fell powerless! Some gathered round And raised him from the ground: his eyes were closed, His lip and cheek were colourless;—they told His heart was broken!....