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She look'd but into the half-shut eye, With a gaze that found there no reply, And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might!

And what deep change, what work of power, Was wrought on her secret soul that hour? How rose the lonely one?—She rose Like a prophetess from dark repose! And proudly flung from her face the veil, And shook the hair from her forehead pale, And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky A brow in its regal passion high, With a close and rigid grasp she press'd The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast, And said—"Not yet—not yet I weep, Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep,