"Nay, prayer to her were vain as prayer to Fate,"
He murmur'd, almost glad that it was so,
Like some sick man that need no longer wait,
But his pain lulls as Death draws near his woe.
And Paris beckon'd to his men, and slow
They bore him dying from that fatal place,
And did not turn again, and did not know
The soft repentance on OEnone's face.
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