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THE
WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.
CANTO SEVENTH.
Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the Harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden’s sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled
To hide her poor afflicted head?
What mighty forest in its gloom
Enfolds her ?—is a rifted tomb
