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COLD marble, that through ages hast preserved
For us the features of an emperor's face,
Unchanging as his will that never swerved,
The mouth, that thou dost mirror with such grace,
More guileless frank than Grecian Sinon's smiles,
Was formed to soothe a senate's empty pride,
Cajole a Roman people with its wiles,
And speak the word by which great Tully died.
The sculptor's hand, a-tremble with his fears,
Refused to essay the eyes, which could, like stone
Unfeeling, gaze on Cleopatra's tears.
Thy very locks seem wreathing to a crown
Prophetic of a destiny which must
Proclaim that head - which, crownless, still would be - august.
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