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Rh

Now pour'd his hurried thanks to her, Heaven's own loveliest minister. E'en by that torch he could espy The burning cheek, the downcast eye,— The faltering lip, which owns too well All that its words might never tell;— Once her dark eye met his, and then Sank 'neath its silken shade again; She spoke a few short hurried words, But indistinct, like those low chords Waked from the lute or ere the hand Knows yet what song it shall command. Was it in maiden fearfulness He might her bosom's secret guess, Or but in maiden modesty At what a stranger's thought might be