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was just risen from her bended knee, But yet peace seem'd not with her piety; For there was paleness upon her young cheek, And thoughts upon the lips which never speak, But wring the heart that at the last they break. Alas! how much of misery may be read In that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:— Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour