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 sudden inspiration of despair. Her eye fixed itself on distant space in wild alarm—her hair streamed—as in a low and hurried tone she thus exclaimed, whilst gazing on the blue vault of heaven:

"Curs'd be the fiend's detested art, Impress'd upon this breaking heart. Visions dark and dread I see. Chill'd is the life-blood in my breast. I cannot pause—I may not rest: I gaze upon futurity.

"My span of life is past, and gone: My breath is spent, my course is done. Oh! sound my lyre, one last sad strain! This hand shall wake thy chords no more. Thy sweetest notes were breath'd in vain: The spell that gave them power is o'er".

"Dearest, what visions affright you?" said de Ruthen. "When shall the wishes of the people be gratified? What sudden gloom darkens over your countenance?" said her astonished followers. "Say, prophetess, what woe do you denounce