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But thou, enchantress-queen! whose love hath made His desolation—thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array'd,   To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. Imperial being! e'en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion'd, wears a light Inspiring and inspired—thy cheek a dye, Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright With the deep glow of feverish energy. Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught With an immortal fire—in every beam It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream; For thou with death hast communed, to attain Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.1