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But, though graced as for a festival, There was something sad in that stately hall: There floated the breath of the harp and flute,— But the sweetest of every music is mute; There are flowers of light and spiced perfume,— But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom: And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here. With urns of odour o'er him weeping, Upon the couch a youth is sleeping: His radiant hair is bound with stars, Such as shine on the brow of night, Filling the dome with diamond rays, Only than his own curls less bright. And such a brow and such an eye As fit a young divinity;