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—Well might she love him: every eye was turn'd On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter burn'd, Save one, that grew the paler for his sake: Alas! for her, whose heart but beat to break; Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye For which the youthful lover swears to die. How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!