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Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say :
Tell them, their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay,
O ! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destin'd prey,
