Draws the hero new force.
-----May the bard these numbers praise,That are sung his fame to raise.-----
And on the Indian breeze as it booms,And in the depths of Egyptian tombs,
Scarce may I hope to meet with thee again;But e'en though fate our fellowship may sever,
Thee, my loved one, is my breast;This the bosom, where thy seals
The sick One will not,Will not recoverFrom her sweet sorrow;She, when she hearethThat her true loverGrows well, falls sick.
Skipp'd a kitten on the floor above me,Scratch'd a mouse a panel in the corner,Was there in the house the slightest motion,Ever hoped I that I heard thy footstep,Ever thought I that I heard thee coming.And so lay I long, and ever longer,And already was the daylight dawning,And both here and there were signs of movement.
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