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She pass'd her hand across the chords Of a lute near, and with soft words Answer'd; then said, "no, thou shalt sing Some legend of the fair and brave." To hand the lute she gave, Whose very soul within him burn'd When her dark eye on his was turn'd: One moment's pause, it slept not long,— His spirit pour'd itself in song.

 

lady sits in her lone bower, With cheek wan as the white rose flower That blooms beside, 'tis pale and wet As that rose with its dew pearls set. 