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, ladye! for the moonlit hour, Like peace, is shining on thy bower; It is so late, the nightingale Has ended even his love tale.

Sleep, ladye! 'neath thy turret grows, Cover'd with flowers, one pale white rose; I envy its sweet sighs, they steep The perfumed airs that lull thy sleep.

Perchance, around thy chamber floats The music of my lone lute notes,— Oh, may they on thine eyelids fall, And make thy slumbers musical!