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 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
LXXXVIII.
'Twas long he had not spoke: now heaved his breast;And now, despite of shame, a tear was straying
From the closed, quivering lid. Some grief supprest,
Some secret care, upon his life was preying.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |