Sidor som bilder

Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold,
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold 2
It must not be :—think'st thou that Christian sect,
Whose followers, quick as broken waves, trect
Their crests anew and swell into a tide,
That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride—
Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, even they
Would triumph thus, had not the constant play
Of Wit's resistless archery clear'd their way?—
That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,
Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,
Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs
Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,
Threat'ning such change as do the awful freaks
Of summer lightning, ere the tempest breaks.

But, to my point—a youth of this vain school,
But one, whol, Doubt itself hu.h fa..'d to, Jool
Down to that freezing point where Priest's despair
Of any spark from the altar catching there—
Hath, some nights since—it was, methinks, the night
That follow'd the full Moon's great annual rite—
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward stray
To these earth-hidden temples, track'd his way,
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands
At the Well's lowest depth—which none but hands
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move—
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:—
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,
Had been observ'd, curiously wand'ring round
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepard,
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dar'd,
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Samian * pass'd,
With trembling hope, to come to—what, at last 2
Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft 1 question him
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim,
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those, who brave
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave,
With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep
Those terrible night-mysteries, where they weep
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze,
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities—
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men,
Drown'd, hang'd, empal’d, to rise, as gods, again;–
Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below
This seven-fold mystery—can they tell thee 2 No;
Gravely they keep that only secret, well
And fairly kept—that they have none to tell:
And, dup'd themselves, console their humbled pride
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time—
That earliest master of our craft sublime—
So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,
From the great Orphic Egg have wing’d abroad,
That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast,
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most ;
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound;
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,
With changeful skill; and make the human mind
like our own Sanctuary, where no ray,
But by the Priest's permission, wins its ray—
Where through the gloom as wave our wizard-rods,
Monsters, as will, are conjur'd into Gods;
While Reason, like a grave-fac’d mummy, stands,
With her arms swath'd in hieroglyphic bands.
Put chieflv in that skill with which we use
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,
lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.
And oh! be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil
Hath, for her use, scoop'd out from Figypt's soil
This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,
Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns

* Pythagoras.

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Here, at this moment—all his trials past,
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last—
Our new Initiate roves—as vet left free
To wander through this realm of mystery;
Feeding on such illusions as prepare
The son: , lik, mist o'er water alls. “o wear
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will,
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still:—
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown,
By scenic skill, into that world unknown,
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;
And all those other witching, wildering arts,
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,
Aye, even the wisest and the hardiest, quail
To any goblin thron'd behind a veil.

Yes—such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,
Mix with his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;
Till, if our Sage be not tam'd down, at length,
His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,
Like Phrygian priests, in honour of the shrine—
If he become not absolutely mine,
Body and soul, and, like the tame decoy
Which wary hunters of wild doves employ,
Draw converts also, lure his brother wits
To the dark cage where his own spirit flits,
And give us, if not saints, good hypocrites—
If I effect not this, then be it said
The ancient spirit of our crast hath fled,
Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath thas'd

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OH fair as heaven and chaste as light !
Did nature mould thee all so bright,
That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguish'd, honour fled,
Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead?

No, no a star was born with thee, Which sheds eternal purity. Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, So fair a transcript of the skies, In lines of light suck heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore, Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose mind and form were both array'd In nature's purest light, like thine;— Who wore that clear, celestial sign, Which seems to mark the brow that's fair For destiny's peculiar care: Whose bosom too, like Dian's own, Was guarded by a sacred zone, Where the bright gem of virtue shone, Whose eyes had, in their light, a charin Against all wrong, and guile, and harm. Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour, These spells have lost their guardian power, The gem has been beguil'd away; Her eyes have lost their chast'ning ray: The to odest pride, the guiltless shame, The similes that from reflection came, All, all have fled, and left her mind A faded monument behind ; The ruins of a once pure shrine, No longer fit for guest divine. Oh! 'twas a signt I wept to see— Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!


P A S S I O N F L 0 W E R.


I AM a daughter of that land Where the poet’s lip and the painter's hand Are most divine,—where the earth and sky, Are picture both and poetry— I am of Florence. ”Mid the chill Of hope and feeling, oh! I still Am proud to think to where I owe My birth, though but the dawn of wo?

My childhood passed 'mid radiant things, Glorious as Hope's imaginings; Statues but known from shapes of the earth By being too lovely for mortal birth; Paintings whose colors of life were caught From the fairy teints in the rainbow wrought; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening’s close; Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute’s awakening chord; Skies malf sunshine, and half starlight; Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight; Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering; Fountains bright as the skies of our spring; And songs whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like mine.

My power was but a woman's power;
Yet, in that great and glorious dower
Which Genius gives, I had my part:
I poured my full and burning heart
In song, and on the canvass made

My dreams of beauty visible;
I knew not which I loved the most—

Pencil or lute,_both loved so well.

Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, When first upon the gallery's wall Picture of mine was placed, to share Wonder and praise from each one there ! Sad were my shades; methinks they had

Almost a tone of prophecy— I ever had, from earliest youth,

A feeling what my fate would be.

My first was of a gorgeous hall, Lighted up for festival; Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom, Diamond agrass, and foam-white plume; Censers of roses, vases of light, Like what the moon sheds on a summer night. Yonths and maidens with linked hands Joined in the graceful sarabands, Smiled on the canvass; but apart Was one who leant in silent mood, As revelry to his sick heart Were worse than veriest solitude. Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers, When I had only slept to dream Over again his magic numbers.

Divinest Petrarch he whose lyre, Like morning light, half dew, half fire, To Laura and to love was vowed— He looke' or one, who with the crowd

Mirgied, but mixed not; on whose cheek
There was a blush, as if she knew
Whose look was fixed on hers. Her eye,
Of a spring sky’s delicious blue,
Had not the language of that bloom,
But mingling tears, and light, and gloom,
Was raised abstractedly to Heaven:--
No sign was to her lover given.
I painted her with golden tresses,
Such as float on the wind's caresses,
When the laburnums wildly fling
Their sunny blossoms to the spring,
A cheek which had the crimson hue
Upon the sun-touched nectarine;
A lip of perfume and of dew;
A brow like twilight’s darkened line.
I strove to catch each charm that long
Has lived,—thanks to her lover's song!
Each grace he numbered one by one,
That shone in her of Avignon.

I ever thought that poet's fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit's bitterest pain To love, to be beloved again; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever. And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar.

O'er some Love's shadow may but pass As passes the breathstain o'er glass; And pleasures, cares, and pride, combined Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. But there are some whose love is high, Entire—and sole idolatry; Who, turning from a heartless world, Ask some dear thing which may renew Affection’s several links, and be As true as they themselves are true. But love’s bright fount is never pure, And all his pilgrims must endure All passion’s mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find A prize which they may never win: Like those who search for Irem's groves, Which found, they may not enter in. Where is the sorrow but appears In Love's long catalogue of tears ? And some there are who leave the path In agony and fierce disdain, But bear upon each cankered breast The scar that never heals again.

My next was of a minstrel too, Who proved that woman's hand might do, When, true to the heart pulse, it woke

The harp. Her head was bending down, As if in weariness, and near,

But unworn, was a laurel crown.
She was not beautiful, if bloom
And smiles form beauty; for, like death,
Her brow was ghastly; and her lip
Was parched, as fever were its breath.
There was a shade upon her dark,
L:::ge, floating eyes, as if each spark

Of minstrel ecstasy was fled, -
Yet leaving them no tears to shed;
Fixed in their hopelessness of care,
And reckless in their great despair.
She sat beneath a cypress tree,
A little fountain ran beside,
And, in the distance, one dark rock
Threw its long shadow o'er the tide;
And to the west, where the nightfall
Was darkening day’s gemmed coronal,
Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky,
Arose the sun-god’s sanctuary.
I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love
She was a long, last farewell taking;-
That from her pale and parched lips,
Her latest, wildest song was breaking.

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Fiorence with what idolatry
I’ve lingered in thy radiant halls,
Worshipping, till my dizzy eye
Grew dim with gazing on those walls,
Where Time had spared each glorious gift
By Genius unto Memory left
And when seen by the pale moonlight,
More pure, more perfect, though less bright,
What dreams of song flashed on my brain,
Till each shade seemed to live again;
And then the beautiful, the grand,
The glorious of my native land,
In every flower that threw its veil
Aside, when wooed by the spring gale;
In every vineyard, where the sun,
His task of summer ripening done,
Shone on their clusters, and a song
Came lightly from the peasant throng;
In the dim loveliness of night,
In sountains with their diamond light,
In aged temple, ruined shrine,
And its green wreath of ivy twine;
In every change of earth and sky,
Breathed the deep soul of poesy.

As yet I loved not; but each wiki. High thought I nourished raised a pyle For love to light; and lighted once By love, it would be like the fire The burning lava floods that dwell In Etna's cave unquenchable.

One evening in the lovely June,
Over the Arno’s waters gliding,

I had been watching the fair moon
Amid her court of white clouds riding:

I had been listening to the gale,
Which wasted music from around,

(For scarce a lover, at that hour,
But waked his mandolin’s light sound).

And odor was upon the breeze,
Sweet thefts from rose and lemon trees.
They stole me from my lulling dream,
And said they knew that such an hour
Had ever influence on my soul,
And raised my sweetest minstrel power.
I took my lute, my eye had been
Wandering round the lovely scene,
Filled with those melancholy tears,
Which come when all most bright appears,
And hold their strange and secret power,
Even on pleasure's golden hour.
I had been looking on the river,
Half-marvelling to think that ever
Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where
All seemed so gentle and so fair;
And mingled with these thoughts there came
A tale, just one that memory keeps—
Forgotten music, till some chance
Vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps?

A MOORISH Romance.

SoFTLY through the pomegranate groves
Came the gentle song of the doves;
Shone the fruit in the evening light,
Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright;
Shook the date-trees each tufted head,
As the passing wind their green nuts shed;
And, like dark columns, amid the sky
The giant palms ascended on high:
And the mosque's gilded ininaret
Glistened and glanced as the daylight set.
Over the town a crimson haze
Gathered and hung of the evening’s rays;
And far beyond, like molten gold,
The burning sands of the desert rolled.
Far to the lest, the sky and sea
Mingled their gray immensity;
And with flapping sail and idle prow
The vessels threw their shades below
Far down the beach, where a cypress grove
Cast its shade round a little cove,
Darkling and green, with just a space
For the stars to shine on the water’s face,
A small bark lay, waiting for night
And its breeze to waft and hide its ‘light.
Sweet is the burden, and lovely the froight
For which those furled-up sails awaii
To a garden, fair as those
Where the glory of the rose
Blushes, charmed from the decay
That wastes other blooms away;
Gardens of the fairy tale
Told, till the wood fire grows pale,
By the Arab tribes, when night
With its dim and lovely light,
And its silence, suiteth well
With the magic tales they tell.
Through that cypress avenue,
Such a garden meets the view,
Filled with flowers—flowers that seem
Lighted up by the sunbeam;
Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves
Green as hope before its grieves
O'er the false and brokenhearted,
All with which its youth has parted.
Never to return again,
Save in memories of pain!

There is a white rose in yon bower, But holds it yet a fairer flower: And music from that cage is breathing. Round which a jasinine braid is wreathing A low song from a lonely dove, A song such exiles sing and love, Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies," Not to be breathed of but in sighs! But fairer smile and sweeter sigh Are near when LFILA's step is nigh! With eves dark as the midnight time, Yet lighted like a summer clime


With sun-rays from within; yet now
Lingers a cloud upon that brow,
Though never lovelier brow was give
To Houri of an Eastern heaven
Her eye is dwelling on that bower,
As every leaf and every flower
Were being numbered in her heart;
There are no looks like those which dwel.
On long-remembered things, which soon
Must take our first and last farewell.

Day fades apace: another day, That maiden will be far away, A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea, And bound for lovely Italy, Her mother's land Hence, on her breast The cross beneath a Moorish vest; And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem Like music murmuring in a dream, When in our sleeping ear is ringing The song the nightingale is singing; When by that white and funeral stone, Half hidden by the cypress gloom, The hymn the mother taught her child Is sung each evening at her tomb. But quick the twilight time has past Like one of those sweet calms that last A moment and no more to cheer, The turinoil of our pathway here. The bark is waiting in the bay, Night darkens round:—LEILA, away ! Far, ere to-morrow, o'er the tide, Or wait and be—ABDALLA's bride?

She touched her lute—never again Her ear will listen to its strain She took fier cage, first kissed the breast— Then freed the white dove prisoned there: It paused one moment on her hand, Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health, That sighed from every scented blossom; And taking from each one a leaf, Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. Then sought the sacred path again She once before had traced, when lay A Christian in her father's chain; And gave him gold, and taught the way To fly. She thought upon the night, When, like an angel of the light, She stood before the prisoner's sight, And led him to the cypress grove, And showed the bark and hidden cove; Anil bade the wandering captive flee, In worls he knew from infancy! And when she thought how for her love He had braved slavery and death, That he might only breathe the air Male sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses— Another step is by her side: Another moment, and the bark Bears the fair Moor across the tide :

'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight,
To mark her eyes—now dark, now bright,
As now they met, now shrank away,
From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day.

ey stood or the deck, and the midnight gale
Just waved the maiden's silver veil—
Just listed a curl, as if to show
The cheek of rose that was burning below:
And never spread a sky of blue
More clear for the stars to wander throught
And never could their mirror be
A calmer or a lovelier sea
For every wave was a diamond gleam :
And that light vessel well may seem
A fairy ship, and that graceful pair
Young Genti, whose home was of light and air!

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Of nuisery:—they just could see
The distant shore of Italy,
As the dim moon through vapors shone—
A few short rays, her light was gone.
O'er head a sullen scream was heard,
As sought the land the white sea bird,
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming
Upon the waves a light is gleaming—
Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death
To light the night-black depths beneath.
The vessel rolled amid the surge ;
The winds howled round it, like a dirge
Sung by some savage race. Then came
The rush of thunder and of flame:
It showed two forms upon the deck,-
One clasped around the other's neck,
As there she could not dream of fear—
In her lover’s arms could danger be near?
He stood and watched her with the eye
Of fixed and silent"agony.
The waves swept on : he felt her heart
Beat close and closer yet to his
They burst upon the ship !—the sea
Has closgl upon their dream of bliss

Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep
Beneath that ancient cedar tree,
Whose solitary stem has stood
For years alone beside the sea!
The last of a most noble race,
That once had there their dwelling-place,
Long past away ! Beneath its shade,
A soft green couch the turf has made:
And glad the morning sun is shining
On those beneath the boughs reclining.
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw
The dark hair of the Moorish maid.
Like a veil, floating o'er the breast
Where tenderly her head was laid;
And yet her lover's arm was placed
Clasping around the graceful waist;
But then he marked the youth’s black curls
Were dripping wet with foam and blood:
And that the maiden’s tresses dark
Were heavy with the briny flood
Wo for the wind –wo for the wavel
They sleep the slumber of the grave!
They buried them beneath that tree;
It long had been a sacred spot.
Soon it was planted round with flowers
By many who had not forgot;
Or yet lived in those dreams of truth
The Eden birds of early youth,
That make the loveliness of love:
And called the place “THE MAIDEN's Cove-
That she who perished in the sea
Might thus be kept in memory.

From many a lip came sounds of praise.
Like music from sweet voices ringing ;
For many a boat had gathered round,
To list the song I had been singing.
."here are some moments in our fate
That stamp the color of our days; -
As, till then, life had not been felt,
And mine was sealed in the slight gaze
Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain,
And bowed my heart beneath the chain.
'Twas a dark and flashing eye,
Shadows, too, that tenderly, ./
With almost female softness, came
O'er its mingled gloom and flame,
His cheek was pale; or toil, or care,
Or midnight study, had been there,
Making its young colors dull,
Yet leaving it most beautiful.
Raven curls their shadow threw,
Like the twilight's darkening hue, s
O'er the pure and mountain snow
Of his high and haughty brow:
Lighted by a smile, whose spell


Such a lip !—oh, poured from thence
Lava floods of eloquence
Would come with fiery energy,
Like those words that can not die.
Words the Grecian warrior spoke
When the Persian's chain he broke,
Or that low and honey tone,
Making woman's heart his own;
Such as should be heard at night,
In the dim and sweet starlight;
Sounds that haunts a beauty’s sleep,
Treasures for her heart to keep.
Like the pine of summer tall; *
Apollo, on his pedestal
In our own gallery, never bent
More gracesul, more magnificent;
Ne'er looked the hero, or the king,
More nobly than the youth who now,
As if soul-centred in my song,
Was leaning on a galley’s prow.
He spoke not when the others spoke,
His heart was all too full for praise;
But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine,
Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said—
Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,
In music, but unconsciously
My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high,
A flush of dizzy ecstasy
Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet,
My wild heart’s most bewildering beat,
Consciousness, without hopes or fears,
Of a new power within me waking,
Like light before the morn’s full breaking.
I left the boat—the crowd: my mood
Made my soul pant for solitude.

Amid my palace halls was one,
The most peculiarly my own :
The roof was blue and fretted gold,
The floor was of the Parian stone,
Shining like snow, as only meet
For the light tread of fairy feet;
And in the midst, beneath a shade
Of clustered rose, a fountain played,
Sprinkling its scented waters round,
With a sweet and lulling sound,-
O'er oranges, like Eastern gold,
Half hidden by the dark green fold
Of their large leaves;–o'er hyacinth bells,
Where every summer odor dwells,
And, nestled in the midst, a pair
Of white wood doves, whose home was there;
And like an echo to their song,
At times a murmur passed along;
A dying tone, a plaining fall,
So sad, so wild, so musical—
As the wind swept across the wire,
And waked my lone AEolian lyre, -
Which lay upon the casement, where
The lattice wooed the cold night air,
Half hidden by a bridal twine
Of jasmine with the emerald vine.
And ever as the curtains made
A varying light, a changeful shade,
As the breeze waved them to and fro,
Came on the eye the glorious show
Of pictured walls where landscape wild
f wood, and stream, or mountain piled,
{}r sunny vale, or twilight grove,
r shapes whose every look was love;
Saints, whose diviner glance seemed caught
From Heaven, some whose earthlier thought
Was yet more lovely,–shone like gleams
Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams.
I threw me on a couch to rest,
Loosely I flung my long black hair;
ft seemed to soothe my troubled breast

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I looked upon the deep-blue sky,
And it was all hope and harmony.
Afar I could see the Arno’s stream
Glorying in the clear moonbeam;
And the shadowy city met my gaze,
Like the dim memory of other days;
And the distant wood’s black coronal
Was like oblivion that covereth all.
I know not why my soul felt sad;
I touched my lute, it would not waken,
Save to old songs of sorrowing—
Of hope betrayed—of hearts forsaken-
Each lay of lighter feeling slept,
I sang, but, as I sang, I wept.

The charMED CUP.

AND fondly round his neck she clung; "

Her long black tresses round him flung,
Love chains, which would not let him part'
And he could feel her beating heart,
The pulses of her small white hand,
The tears she could no more command,
The lip which trembled, though near his,
The sigh that mingled with her kiss;–
Yet parted he from that embrace.
He cast one glance upon her face:
His very soul felt sick to see
Its look of utter misery;
Yet turned he not; one moment’s grief,
One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief,
One thought, half pity, half remorse,
Passed o'er him. On he urged his horse;
Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by,
And when his castle-gate was nigh,
White foam was on his 'broidered rein,
And each spur had a blood-red stain.
But soon he entered that fair hall:
His laugh was loudest there of all;
And the cup that wont one name to bless,
Was drained for his forgetsulness.
The ring, once next his heart, was broken;
The gold chain kept another token.
Where is the curl he used to wear—
The raven tress of silken hair 7
The winds have scattered it. A braid
Of the first spring day's golden shade,
Waves with the dark plumes on his crest.
Fresh colors are upon his breast:
The slight blue scars, of simplest fold,
Is changed for one of woven gold.
And he is by a maiden's side,
Whose gems of price, and robes of pride,
Would suit the daughter of a king;
And diamonds are glistening
Upon her arm. There’s not one curl
Unfastened by a loop of pearl.
And he is whispering in her ear
Soft words that ladies love to hear.

Alas!—the tale is quickly told—
His love hath felt the curse of gold!
And he is bartering his heart
For that in which it hath no part.
There's many an ill that clings to love;
But this is one all else above;—
For love to bow before the name
Of this world's treasure: shame! oh, shamel
Love, be thy wings as light as those
That wast the zephyr from the rose,
This may be pardoned—something rare
In loveliness has been thy snare
But how, fair love, canst thou become
A thing of mines—a sordid gnome 7

And she whom "ULIAN left—she stood A cold white statue: as the blood Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, Flown to her heart, and frozen there. Upon her temple, each dark vein Swelled in its agony of pain. Chill, heavy damns were on her brow; Her arms were stretched at len"th- thous? now

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