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Will herald in the morning, all is still, And calm, and soothing now,—no rougher sounds Than the low murmur of the mountain rill, And the sweet music of the nightingale, Are on the air. But a far darker storm, The tempest of the heart, the evil war Of fiery passions, is fast gathering O'er that bright creature's head, whose fairy bower And fairy shape breathe but of happiness. She is most beautiful! The richest tint That e'er with roselight dyed a summer cloud, Were pale beside her cheek; her raven hair Falls even to her feet, though fastened up In many a curl and braid with bands of pearl; And that white bosom and those rounded arms Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill