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 Mute o'er the dying maiden's form King Mycerinus bends;—

Not Pharaoh's might from this dread foe proud Egypt's hope defends!

Piteously moans he: "In this world, so dark without thy smile!

Hast thou one care thy Father's love, thy King's pledge may beguile?

Hast thou a last light wish?—'Tis thine, by all the Gods on high!

If Egypt's blood can win it thee, or Egypt's treasure buy!"

How eagerly they wait her words! Upon the pictured wall

In long gold lines the dying lights between the columns fall;

Was it strange that tears were glistening where tears should never be,

When Death had touched with fatal kiss the lips of such as she?