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Upon her temple, each dark vein Swelled in its agony of pain. Chill, heavy damps were on her brow; Her arms were stretched at length, though now Their clasp was on the empty air: A funeral pall—her long black hair Fell over her; herself the tomb Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom. Alas! that man should ever win So sweet a shrine to shame and sin As woman’s heart!—and deeper woe For her fond weakness, not to know That yielding all but breaks the chain That never reunites again!