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With a beating heart, and trembling Sir Eliduc sits in a lonely home,

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He hath built a marble tomb, And within it laid the foreign maid

In the wild wood's central gloom : With railings of gold he hath railed it round,

Beside the hermit's mossy cell; He hath lock'd it with a silver key,

And bidden a last farewell.


'Twas a lone sequester'd place; through boughs

The sky o'erhead was seen; And wild vines ran the stems about, And festooning ivy green; 'Twas a favourite haunt for nightingales

Singing the moonlight through; And by day the living emerald shade Echo'd the stock-dove's coo.


'Twas one of Nature's shrines-the birds

And beasts came flocking there: The golden pheasant, and vocal


And squirrel, and hart, and hare; But scarce a footstep breaks the gloom,

The long still season lone ; Rains, winds, and sunbeams kiss the tomb

But Sir Eliduc is gone!

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