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And silver lamps like moonshine fell O'er mirrors and the tapestried swell Of gold and purple: on they went Through rooms each more magnificent.

And look'd upon the brow Of the fair guide who led him now: It was a pale but lovely face, Yet in its first fresh spring of grace, That spring before or leaf or flower Has known a single withering hour: With lips red as the earliest rose That opens for the bee's repose. But it was not on lip, or cheek Too marble fair, too soft, too meek, That aught was traced that might express More than unconscious loveliness;