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THE SILVER CHALICE.

Had given her life and ta'en it from her, she died.

Might not this grief have soften'd Isador?

Might not she shudder at the blank abyss

New-yawn'd beneath her over-slipping feet?

Rather her sorrow in her so much wrought,

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That more, for Berta's death, should Tristram die.

She took the goblet, red with liquid death,

And set it as before; but lest mischance

Should foil the deed, behind an arras hid.

"There let him drink, and trouble me no more!"

And one came, but not Tristram; 't was the King,

Who took the chalice, rais'd it to his lips,

And thus had died, had not a white hand flasht

Before him, swiftly stricken death's hand away, -

Had not a white face fallen before his feet.

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