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Columba rose, but not alone,
To lead the queen down from the throne,
And give her to the imperious hand
Of the oppressor of the land:
The tears stream'd o'er her pallid cheek.
She look'd abroad, but could not speak.
Then many a stifled groan was heard,
From breasts that were but ill prepared
To yield their queen to such a fate;
Ten thousand swords were drawn too late;
One moment, and the prize is won—
'Tis past.—The will of God be done!