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Her maidens gather'd round. What more, yet more, To read the breast now throbbing to the core? She hurried not their task,—each silken braid Of raven hair was in set order laid: But once she show'd her weakness,—when her hand Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band, It trembled like a leaf:—but that pass'd by; Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh; And when her last good night was courteous said, Never more queenlike seem'd that lofty head. The last step died upon the marble stair,— She sprang towards the door,—the bolt is there:— She tried the spring, gave one keen look around, Mutter'd "alone!" and dash'd her on the ground. Corpse-like she lay,—her dark hair wildly thrown Far on the floor before her; white as stone,