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The same to him, as if content Were his peculiar element. 'Tis strange how the heart can create Or colour from itself its fate; We make ourselves our own distress, We are ourselves our happiness.

And many a song and many a lay, Had pass'd the cheerful hour away, When one pray'd that he would relate, His tale of the proud ladye's fate,— The lady ;—the name Like lightning upon came! And swept the harper o'er his chords As that he paused for minstrel words, Or stay'd till silence should prevail, When thus the old man told the tale.