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'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.

"Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? "Know'st thou that man?" Poor Lamia answer'd not.

He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jot
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:

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More, more he gaz'd: his human senses reel:
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;
There was no recognition in those orbs.
"Lamia!" he cry'd-and no soft-ton'd reply.
The many heard, and the loud revelry

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Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths.

By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

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A deadly silence step by step increased,

Until it seem'd a horrid presence there,

And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

"Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek

With its sad echo did the silence break.

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"Begone, foul dream!" he cry'd, gazing again

In the bride's face, where now no azure vein

Wander'd on fair-spac'd temples; no soft bloom
Misted the cheek; no passion to illume

The deep-recessed vision:-all was blight;
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.

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"Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!

"Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban
"Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
"Here represent their shadowy presences,

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"May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn
"Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,
"In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright
"Of conscience, for their long offended might,
"For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,

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"Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.
"Corinthians! look upon that grey-beard wretch!
"Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch
"Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!
"My sweet bride withers at their potency."
"Fool!" said the sophist, in an under-tone
Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan
From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost,
He sank supine beside the aching ghost.
"Fool! Fool!" repeated he, while his eyes still
Relented not, nor mov'd; "from every ill
"Of life have I preserv'd thee to this day,

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"And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?"

Then Lamia breath'd death breath; the sophist's eye,

Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,
Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well

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As her weak hand could any meaning tell,
Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so,
He look'd and look'd again a level—No!
"A serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said,
Than with a frightful scream she vanished:
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of life, from that same night.
On the high couch he lay!-his friends came round-
Supported him-no pulse, or breath they found,
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.

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ISABELLA,

OR,

THE POT OF BASIL.

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO.

ISABELLA;

OR,

THE POT OF BASIL.

I.

FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; / They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by ; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

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