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And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps Of other crisped spicewood: then again I look'd upon the altar, and its horns Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame, And then upon the offerings again; And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried: "The sacrifice is done, but not the less Will I be kind to thee for thy good-will. My power, which to me is still a curse, Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes Still swooning vivid through my globed brain, With an electral changing misery, Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not." As near as an immortal's sphered words Could to a mother's soften were these last: And yet I had a terror of her robes, And chiefly of the veils that from her brow Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries, That made my heart too small to hold its blood. This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, Not pined by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd By an immortal sickness which kills not; It works a constant change, which happy death Can put no end to; deathwards progressing To no death was that visage; it had past The lily and the snow; and beyond these I must not think now, though I saw that face. But for her eyes I should have fled away;