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And gather'd up with diamonds,—few there were— Just stars to light the midnight of her hair. Well did the sweeping robe of emerald green, Wrought in rich gold, suit with her stately mien. "How beautiful she looks this evening!" burst From every lip, when that fair Countess first Enter'd 's hall: her heart's content To every lighted look its lustre lent. Her beauty's fault had been, it was too cold; Features too tranquil in their perfect mould, A cheek somewhat too pale; but not to-night— The eye was sparkling, and the cheek was bright. Gently she glided to a balustrade, Where jessamine a pleasant shadow made: It raised no marvel; never had her hand With its white beauty link'd the saraband;