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All that suits a noble race, All of high-born maiden's grace,— Who is there could look on thee And doubt thy nobility?

Round thee satin robe is flung, Pearls upon thy neck are hung, And upon thy arm of snow Rubies like red sun-gifts glow; Yet thou wearest pearl and gem As thou hadst forgotten them.— 'Tis a step, but made to tread O'er Persian web, or flower's head,— Soft hand that might only move In the broider'd silken glove,— Cheek unused to ruder air Than what hot-house rose might bear,—