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To that fair but tear-wash'd cheek, That look'd so earnest, yet so meek; To that mouth whose gentle words Murmur like the wind-lute's chords; To that soft and pleading eye Who is there could suit deny? Bent the king, with look of care, O'er the dear one kneeling there; Bent and kiss'd his pleading one,— Ah, that smile! her suit is won. —It was a little fountain made A perfect sanctuary of shade; The pine boughs like a roof, beneath The tapestry of the acacia wreath. The air was haunted, sounds, and sighs, The falling waters' melodies;