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Its pleasant music; tenderly He laid his head upon his knee, And from the dented helm unrolled The blood-stained curls of summer gold. Knew he not then those deep-blue eyes, That lip of rose, and smiles, and sighs? His !—his! could this be her,— Thus for his sake a wanderer!— He spoke not—moved not—but sate there, A statue in his cold despair, Watching the lip and cheek decay, As faded life's last hue away, While she lay sweet and motionless, As only faint with happiness. At length she spoke, in that sweet tone Woman and love have for their own: