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A man stood on the hill-top; he was a poet. He emptied a silver-rimmed mead-horn, and whispered a name, which he bade the wind not to reveal; a count’s coronet shone above it, and therefore he breathed it low—the moonbeams smiled upon him, for a poet’s crown shone above his! The noble name of Eleonora d’Este is united to Tasso’s. I know where the rose of beauty grows. A cloud passed before the moon. May no cloud pass between the poet and his rose!
