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Is the stain,—yes, 'tis blood!—and that cold cheek— That moveless lip!—thou dost not slumber?—speak, Speak, Azzo, my belov’d!—no sound—no breath— What hath come thus between our spirits?—Death! Death?—I but dream—I dream!"—and there she stood, A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone, And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold; When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a gleam— 'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream,— Her brother's sword!—she knew it; and she knew 'Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew! Wo for young love! But love is strong. There came Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame,