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Like to our own glad spirits, its fine chords Are soon relax'd.

Then sing, love, with the wind, The plaining wind, and let that be thy lute.

How wildly round our ancient battlements The air-notes murmur! Blent with such a wind I heard the song which shall be ours to-night. She had a strange sweet voice, the maid who sang, But early death was pale upon her cheek; And she had melancholy thoughts, that gave Their sadness to her speech: she sat apart From all her young companions, in the shade