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Eloquent in its blushes, and its hues Now varied like the evening's;—but 'tis vain To dwell on youthful lovers' parting hour. A first farewell, with all its passionate words, Its lingering looks, its gushing tears, its hopes Scarcely distinguish'd from its fears, its vows,— They are its least of suffering; for the heart Feels that it needs them not, yet breathes them still, Making them oracles. But the last star Sinks down amid the mountains:—he must go; By daybreak will his gallant vassals look To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she there His dark plume cast its shadow on the snows, His rapid foot bound on from crag to crag:— The rocks have hid him from her eager view, But still she hears the echo of his step,—