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She came—the purple evening air Grew as her sweet face shone more fair; She came—the flowers beneath her feet Sprang up amid the grass more sweet. Leoni kneels more graceful far Than in the morning pomp of war. Dust—paleness—blood—a charm confer; Irene felt they were for her. Such service might the proudest move, And gratitude excuses love. With queenly step, but eye that bent Too conscious on the earth beneath; Herself she led him to the tent Where hung the victor's laurel wreath. Herself unclasped the bands of steel, Herself unbound the armed heel;