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Oh! she was good as she was fair. None-none on earth above her! As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her. When little, and her eyes, her voice, Her every gesture said “ rejoice," Her coming was a gladness; And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, When, shading with her hand her face, She half inclined to sadness. Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; Like music to the heart it went. And her dark eyes-how eloquent ! Ask what they would, 'twas granted. Her father loved her as his fame; -And Bayard's self had done the same!
Soon as the sun the glittering pane On the red floor in diamonds threw, His songs she sung and sung again, Till the last light withdrew. But she is dead to him, to all! Her lute hangs silent on the wall; And on the stairs, and at the door Her fairy-step is heard no more! At every meal an empty chair Tells him that she is not there; She, who would lead him where he went, Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;