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He saw a white veil wave,—his heart beat high: He heard a voice, and then a low toned sigh. Gently he stole amid the shading trees— It is his love—his Hero that he sees! Her hand lay motionless upon the lute, Which thrilled beneath the touch, her lip was mute, Only her eyes were speaking; dew and light There blended like the hyacinth, when night Has wept upon its bosom; she did seem As consciousness were lost in some sweet dream— That dream was love! Blushes were on her cheek, And what, save love, do blushes ever speak? Her lips were parted, as one moment more, And then the heart would yield its hidden store. 'Twas so at length her thought found utterance: Light, feeling, flashed from her awakened glance—