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 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
XXXVII.
“No grosser blood, commingling with her own,Shall ever make her mother. Oh! that mild,
Sad glance I love, that lip, that melting tone,
Shall ne'er be given to any mortal's child.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |