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THE SILVER CHALICE.

And one came, but not Tristram; from a head

Of six short summers hung the dark moist curls,

Lookt forth in glee the innocent hazel eyes

Of Berta, the Queen's daughter. Hot with play,

Breathing short sighs, on tireless little feet

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Down the long sounding hall she came, and saw

The chalice, and, on tiptoe rais'd, to touch

Her nose to the slab, and tiny hand uprear'd,

She pull'd near, overspilt half, and half drank

O' the blood-red venom, and past out again.

But flitting thro' shady paths - now plucking flowers,

Now trying to grasp a branch, and grasping air,

Dabbling a chubby hand i' the fount, to lose

Her blossoms - sudden stricken, she swooned and fell.

They found and bare her home: and in whose arms

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