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And droop'd the bud at being left, Or as ashamed of each sweet theft, What hour the soft wind bore along The nightingale's moonlighted song.

And heard her father's name, He whose it was, was link'd with fame: Though driven from his heritage, A hunted exile in his age, For that he would not bend the knee, And draw the sword at Rome's decree.

She led him to the lonely cot, And almost wish'd his lot Had been cast in that humbler life, Over whose peace the hour of strife