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Or the stricken eagle soar!
Now all my hours are trances;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!--
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
That these lines were written in English--a language with which I had
not believed their author acquainted--afforded me little matter for
surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of
the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation, to
be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must
confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally
written London, and afterwards carefully overscored--not, however, so
effectually as to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this
occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a former
conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any
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