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Rh Its words still breathed, though the ink was cold
 * As the hopes of the hearts she had fettered,

A magical name on the book was enrolled, And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold,
 * And ’twas bound in green, and lettered.

As she counted the leaves, and counted o’er
 * The victims her frowns had killed,

A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore, Came blushing, and said, “Here is one song more;”
 * She answered, “The pages are filled.”

He sighed, of course, but he manfully strove
 * To check the sigh as it rose;

And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly wove Into very bad verses the tale which, above,
 * Is written in good plain prose.

And added, “In coming hours, Lady, when you
 * On the tears of your victims are feeding,

As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew, Keep this withered leaf in the book—’twill do
 * To mark where you left off reading.”