Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/102

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Some noble race gone to the dust in blood; Man shames of his own deeds, and there we gaze, Watching the progress not of time, but death. —Low music floated on the midnight wind, A mournful murmur, such as opes the heart With memory's key, recalling other times, And gone by hopes and feelings, till they have An echo sorrowful, but very sweet. "Hush!" said my comrade,—"it is ; "Now you may gaze upon the loneliness "Which is her inspiration." Soft we pass'd Behind a fragment of the shadowy wall. —I never saw more perfect loveliness. It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare;