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No more, within her marble halls,—to listen to the

breeze, When evening, like a spirit, falls, among the orange trees; No more,—to watch, around her bower, each shadow as

it flits, With love's own eye, at love's own hour,—the lady Inez

sits !

II. And never more, at morning time,- as at the touch of

spells, Shall Inez wake, beneath the chime of far Valencia’s

bells; Valencia's lofty tower hath Aung another voice around, And she, alone, for whom it rung, arose not at the


III. The lady of a thousand hearts !--the tended and carest! And guarded by a thousand arts--that could not guard

her breast;

And many answered at her call, and watched her steps,

in vain, For she has wandered from them all, --never to come



An old man sits within the home that she had made so

bright, Whose brow is dreary as a tomb, and his eye is like its

light; And page and squire, within its walls, keep up an idle

state, For there are weepers in its halls, and weepers at its


”T is eve !-and, through her lattice high, looks in the

quiet moon, And scents like sweet thoughts--wander by, upon the

breath of June; There sits the lady Inez, pale, and with a fevered

eye,But not to watch the cloud-boats sail, nor hear the roses


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Light as a moonbeam through the leaves, a white plume

plays, afar, And—-louder scarce than silence-grieves a lone and low guitar;

Well Inez knows it, by the tears that, at its waving,

start, And, faint as are the tones, she hears,- and hears them

with her heart!

VII. And all that melancholy night, that melancholy tune, Sweet as it floated on that light, and murmured from that

moon, Sad as it came from distant lands, and spoke of distant

years, Falls loud upon her listening heart, though low upon her

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As 't were a song that she had heard,-oh! many an

age agone, That voice of some remembered bird that from her bower

had flown ! But silent-never more to rise !—the dim and dream-like

strain, And morning shews her heavy eyes a ship upon the

main !

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She withered from that day, her bloom grew beautifully

faint, And her murmurs took a tone, whose voice was sadder

than complaint.

Oh! never more, to her, the moon Alung beauty on the

wave, And night fell down as if the sun were going to its

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And to her eye there came a light more bright than that

of mirth; And o'er her brow a loveliness that was not of the

earth; And as her wasting form went by, its motion gave no

sound, And her foot-fall was so soft it drew no echo from the

ground !

And heroun

XI. The earth, to-day, is like a grave,—the air is like a

shroud, There is no pulse upon the wave,-no motion in the

cloud; The morning like a mourner comes,—the sky is like a

pall, And sounds, as if they stole from tombs, go wailing over

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XII. Before the shrine,-her forehead bowed upon her thin,

white hands, Still as she were a sculptured thing, the lady Inez stands,

And when, among the long, dim aisles, the holy anthem

dies, They raise her face, but she is gone, in music, to the

skies !


Upon her brow there is no sign that death had struggled

there, No pang to make her all divine, who, ever, was so

fair!The stars had faded, one and all, before the dull, grey

light, But Inez saw them once, again, long ere another night!

XIV. The lark had risen, at her feet, upon her morning way, But she shall be before him, yet, amid the purer day; And half way up at heaven's gate, from earth, she heard

him sing, But Inez passed him, in his flight,—and with a lighter


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