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The lake and its white swans: at length he came To his sweet garden and its thousand flowers. The roses were in blossom, and the air Oppressed him with its fragrance. On a walk, As if just fallen from some beauty's hair, There lay a branch of myrtle—Arnold caught Its leaves, and kiss'd them!—Sure, 'twas Adeline's! He stood now by a little alcove, made Of flowers and green boughs—Adeline is there— But, wo for Arnold, she is not alone!— So lovely, and so false!—There, there she sat, Her white arm round a stranger's neck, her fair brow Bowed on his shoulder, while her long black hair Streamed o'er his bosom—There they sat, so still, Like statues in that light; and Arnold thought How often he had leant with Adeline