Helen of Troy
LXI.

Andrew Lan

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So night drew on with rain, nor yet they ceased

Within the hall to drink the gleaming wine,

And late they pour'd the last cup of the feast,

To Argus-bane, the Messenger divine;

And last, 'neath torches tall that smoke and shine,

The maidens strew'd the beds with purple o'er,

That Diocles and Paris might recline

All night, beneath the echoing corridor.

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