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How deeply will the spirit feel The lute, the song's sweet-voiced appeal; And how the heart drink in their sighs As echoes they from Paradise.

'Tis done: the last bright gem is set In sparkling coronet; A soil on her rich veil appears,— Unsuiting here—and is it tears!

Her father met her, he was proud To lead his daughter through the crowd, And see the many eyes that gazed, Then mark the blush their gazing raised; And for his sake, she forced away The clouds that on her forehead lay,