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of Troy has sprung from Hell
 * To claim her ancient throne:

So we have bidden friends farewell
 * To follow her alone.

The Lady of the laurelled brow,
 * The Queen of pride and power,

Looks rather like a spirit now,
 * And rather like a flower.

Dark in her eyes the lamp of night
 * Burns with a secret flame,

Where shadows pass that have no sight,
 * And ghosts that have no name.