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ONG ago from radiant palace, Dream-bemused, in flood of moon, Stole the princess Seraphita Into forest gloom.

Wail of hemlock; cold the dewdrops; Danced the Dryads in the chace; Heavy hung ambrosial fragrance; Moonbeams blanched her ravished face.

Frail and clear the notes delusive; Mocking phantoms in a rout Thridded the night-cloistered thickets, Wove their sorceries in and out. . . . Mourn'st thou now? Or do thine eyelids Frame a vision dark, divine, O'er this imp of star and wild-flower— Of a god once thine?