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Whose youth has pass'd in an old castle, dark With overhanging pines; whose twilight hours Are spent in ancient galleries, where the walls Are hung with pictures of grim ancestors; Who art familiar with the plumed knights Whose effigies keep guard in the old hall, On whose black panels of the carved oak The sunshine falls in vain; no wonder thou Shouldst yield these marvels such a ready faith: But, though I fain would share thy every thought, Feel—hope—fear—any thing like thee—at this I cannot choose but smile.

Nay, Jaromir! Who shall deny the spiritual influence