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Led by their dark guide on they press Through many a green and lone recess: The morning air, the bright sunshine, To were like the red wine,— Each leaf, each flower seem'd to be With his own joy in sympathy, So fresh, so glad; but the fair Moor, From peril and pursuit secure, Though hidden by her close-drawn veil, Yet seem'd more tremulous, more pale; The hour of dread and danger past, Fear's timid thoughts came thronging fast; Her cold hand trembled in his own, Her strength seem'd with its trial gone, And downcast eye, and faltering word, But dimly seen, but faintly heard,