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36

Its time was come—and from the spirit's depths, The passion and the mighty melody Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, Like a strong rushing wind!

The soft pure air, Came floating through that hall;—the Grecian air, Laden with music—flute-notes from the vales, Echoes of song—the last sweet sounds of life; And the glad sunshine of the golden clime Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form, The glorified of love! But she—she look'd Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die, Deep—deepest, holiest joy!—or if a thought Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide Of her unswerving soul—'twas but a thought That owned the summer-loveliness of life For him a worthy offering!—So she stood, Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile,