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The bridal of Vaumond

A Metrical Romance

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II.

A lovely treacherous bower beheld,
With gilded scales, a serpent lurk,
While livid infamy, conceal'd,
Rejoic'd, prophetic of her work.

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He hath not wound her in his coil;
The rose may still its fragrance shed;
Crime hath not sear'd the cheerful soil,
And the lily need not hang its head.