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118 To seek, at the fall of night, The flower that brings to the maiden’s dream His glance and form, who yet may claim Her heart’s high place though they never came Before her waking sight! And there comes from our youth a sad old theme Of that blossom’s mystic might- Yet the girl was fair, and young, and gay, Who sought her love on the Eve of May. The youth she saw had the glance and brow Of a dark and alien race, Who knelt at altars deem’d unbless’d- But never from the maiden’s breast Might pass the track of that shadowy guest; And on each wanderer’s face She cast a glance that knew no rest, In its silent search to trace The beauty of the brow, whose beam Had lighted her unforgotten dream. The time of the sweet May Eve return’d- But the storm-clouds linger’d long Around our northern cliffs, for night Had heard the roar of the tempest’s might; And a far-bound bark, as the dawn grew white, Went down, where high and strong The billows beat o’er the sea-crag’s height- And their foam-crests bore along One burden of their buried store To that maiden’s feet on the wreck-strewn shore! Oh! fair was that form in death, Though born in a land that loved not ours-

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