XXXIII.
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wakening up, he took her hollow lute,--Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be, 290He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"Close to her ear touching the melody;--Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:He ceased--she panted quick--and suddenlyHer blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
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