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With our best feelings mix'd, and now But that, what shadows brow.

He had deem'd a declining flower, Pining in solitary bower, He should find, sad and lone,— He sought the cage, the bird had flown, With burnish'd plume, and careless wing, A follower of the sunny Spring. He pictured her the first of all In masque, and dance, and festival,— With cheek at its own praises burning, And eyes but on adorers turning, The lady of the tournament, For whose bright sake the lance was sent; While minstrels borrow'd from her name The beauty which they paid by fame: