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what were dreams that night? The morning's gift of crimson light Waked not his sleep, for his pale cheek Did not of aught like slumber speak; Though not upon a morn like this Should turn to aught but bliss. To-day, when will be prest, Ere evening, to his throbbing breast,— To-day, when all his own will be That cheer'd his long captivity. Care to the wind of heaven was flung As the young knight to stirrup sprung.

He reach'd the castle; save one, all Rush'd to his welcome in the hall. He gazed, but there no came, Scarce his low voice named name!