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The source of all the sweet or gentle there: But this was past—what had it left?—despair!

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with rose:— Can sorrow be upon such gales as those? Yes, for it waked the Countess. Up she sprung, Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung By the veranda,—and that open, too; Her hair was heavy with the weight of dew; Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed. It was her own fair room,—some frightful dream, But indistinct,—she struggled with a scream: Her eye has caught a mirror,—that pale face,— Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace