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And lamps were blazing—those lamps of perfume Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown Over one night hour and made it her own. And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray, As the gems of the East had there melted away; And the bards were singing those songs of fire, That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire;— While she, the glory and pride of the hour, Sat silent and sad in her secret bower! There is a grief that wastes the heart, Like mildew on a tulip's dyes,— When hope, deferred but to depart, Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs;