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THE SILVER CHALICE.

Poor flower, that wither'd at the feverous touch!"

Prone at his feet she fell, and, speaking, hid

Her eyes: "I would have died to save her, tho'

She died thro' me . . . I will confess. My lord,

Beth's son is prince, mine subject, and you love

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Hers most. Forgive me! - Oh, you do not know

The weary days, the passionate, restless nights,

The violent throbbing of a jealous heart, -

I fell for my child's sake. I set the cup

For Tristram . . . Grant thou the last boon I crave!

When I am dead - or banisht - and forgotten,

Hate not the children for the mother's crime:

Let all things be as I had never lived."

"Good mother, I blame thee not. Thy child is dead,

And that has punisht thee. It is the last

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