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At last from 'mid the crowd one came, Unknown himself, unknown his name, Both knight and bard,—the stranger wore The garb of a young Troubadour; His dark green mantle loosely flung, Conceal'd the form o'er which it hung; And his cap, with its shadowy plume, Hid his face by its raven gloom. Little did careless eye Dream that it wander'd by, Though his first tone thrill'd every vein, It only made her turn again, Forget the scene, the song, and dwell But on what memory felt too well.