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If there be but one spot upon thy name, One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice Whose tones thou shrink'st from—Woman! veil thy face, And bow thy head—and die!

seest her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,} Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair   Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face, Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!