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As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast

Roused from its sleep,—the solitude had cast

For ages on it,—had, a silvery band

Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand

Arisen,—each a visible delight,—

Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white,

From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,—

For so they deemed the King, who came alone,—