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"TWAS Autumn; thro' Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast.
The sun had set behind the hill,
The moon was up, and all was still,
When Jacqueline came forth alone,
She starts, and what has caught her eye?
Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone;
By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood.
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy cross, St. Louis, rest
He slung his old sword by his side,
-Constance! Claudine! where were ye then?
And who but she could soothe the boy,