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The darkest hours of night were spent Before Leoni sought his tent; Then, feverish, down he lay to ask For sleep, as if sleep were a task; When, lo! upon his pillow laid, A letter, fastened by a braid Of silken hair and golden hue,— Ah, writing both and hair he knew!

A few last words—they are not much To ask, my early friend, of thee; My friend—at least thou still art such— The dearest earth can hold for me.