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Then like the swan with statelier swell, She past the threshold of her cell. No knight could see that lip and eye, And boon, which they might ask, deny! Thy smile securing thy behest, Go, lady, in thy loveliest.

The morning! 'tis a glorious time, Recalling to the world again The Eden of its earlier prime, Ere grief, or care, began their reign. When every bough is wet with dews, Their pure pale lit with crimson hues; Not wan, as those of evening are, But pearls unbraided from the hair Of some young bride who leaves the glow Of her warm cheek upon their snow.