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Rh And see it trac'd with such a tale of woe: To think that one so young and beautiful, Was wasting to the grave! Within yon bower Of honey-suckle, and the snowy wealth The mountain ash puts forth to welcome spring, Her form was found, reclin'd upon a bank; Where nature's sweet unnurtur'd children bloom'd: One white arm lay beneath her drooping head, While her bright tresses twin'd their sunny wreath Around the polish'd ivory; there was not A tinge of colour mantling o'er her face; 'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill Has trac'd each charm of beauty, save the blush. Serenity so sweet sat on her brow; So soft a smile yet hover'd on her lips; At first they thought 'twas sleep—and sleep it was, The cold long rest of death. There is one grave, o'er which the cypress bends,