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"O, the blessed woods of Sussex."

O, the cursed woods of Sussex! where

the hunter's arrow found me,

When a fair face and a tender voice had

made me mad and blind!

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged

the numerous guests invited,

And the lovely London ladies trod the

floors with gliding feet;

And their voices low with fashion, not

with feeling, softly freighted

All the air about the windows, with elastic

laughters sweet.

For at eve, the open windows flung their

light out on the terrace,

Which the floating orbs of curtains did

with gradual shadow sweep;

While the swans upon the river, fed at

morning by the heiress,

Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep.

And there evermore was music, both of

instrument and singing;

Till the finches of the shrubberies grew

restless in the dark;

But the cedars stood up motionless, each

in a moonlight ringing,

And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed

the hollows of the park.

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches,

To commix my words and laughter with

the converse and the jest,

Oft I sat apart, and gazing on the river

through the beeches,

Heard, as pure the swans swam down it,

her pure voice o'erfloat the rest.

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