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Her lover's form appeared to glide, And beckon o'er the water: Alas! his blood that morn had dyed Her brother's sword with slaughter. Upon a little rock she stood, To make her invocation: She marked not that the rain-swoll'n flood Was islanding her station. The tempest mocked her feeble cry: No saint his aid would give her: The flood swelled high and yet more high, And swept her down the river.
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