The Queen of Spells

Hark, whence that rushing sound, tis like the wondrous strain that round a lonely ruin swells. Her golden tresses shade the bosom's stainless pride curling like tendrils of the parasite around a marble column. Tis softer than the west wind sigh, tis wilder than the unmeasured notes of that strange lyre whose strings the genie of the breezes sweep. Those lines of rainbow light are like the moonbeams when they fall through some cathedral window, but the tints are such as may not find comparison on earth. These the queen of spells drew in, she spread a charm around the spot and, leaning graceful from the ethereal car