"Oh, shape divine! Such madd'ning grace must have
A soul, a consciousness of love and life
Though tombed in pallor, with no epitaph
But silence! What mighty spell with power rife
Can wake thee into Being's passion strife?
Yet if there be such, let it rest unsought;
For every boon thou couldst from breath derive
I would not wrest from thee that higher lot,
The need of deathlessness, thou pale, embodied thought!
"Great poet souls and people yet unborn
Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet,
And still thy life be in its rosy dawn,
Whose eve eternity alone shall greet.
While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet
As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould,
Shall be forgot! What wealth of fame can mete
The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold,
But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!"
He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play
About her head, as lightnings round the moon;
Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray--
A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone,
And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone.
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