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THE GAME OF CHESS.
We played at chess, Bianca and myself,One afternoon, but neither won the game.
Both absent-minded, thinking of our hearts,
Moving the ivory pawns from black to white,
Shifted to little purpose round the board;
Sometimes we quite forgot them in a sigh,
And then remembered it, and moved again;
Looking the while along the slopes beyond,
Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the grove
Where lovers sat in shadow, back again,
With sideway glances in each other's eyes;
Unknowingly I made a lucky move,
Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen;
My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand,—
A soft white hand that gave itself away,—
Told o'er the simple story of my love,
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And prayed her, if she loved me in return,—
A fabled doubt,—to give her heart to me;
And then, and there, above that game of chess,
Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness—
I'm coming, Sweet!—she gave her heart to me!
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