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And there, heard but by the lone gale, He would have whisper'd his love tale; And without change, or cloud, or care, Have kept his bosom's treasure there. And then, with all a lover's pride, He thought it shame such gem to hide: And imaged he a courtly scene Of which she was the jewell'd queen,— The one on whom each glance was bent, The beauty of the tournament, The magnet of the festival, The grace, the joy, the life of all,— But she, alas for her false smile! loved him not the while.

And is it thus that woman's heart Can trifle with its dearest part,