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reclined. Awhile she lay,— Then, as if movement hurried time away, She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face,— Then wreath'd the flowers,—then watch'd, as if to trace The evening close: again the couch was press'd, But feverish, restless, more for change than rest: And yet all this was only the excess Of overmuch impatient happiness. Many a weary hour and day had past For that young Countess,—this day was the last. He was return'd, with all war could confer Of honourable name, to home and her. would to-night be in the hall Where Count held his festival, Would hear her history; how there was now Nothing to chain the heart or check the vow.