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Unheard, unwish'd for; no one came to soothe Their days of bitterness; proscribed, and left Alone, to struggle with despair and pain: Riven asunder all the blessed ties Which are the hope and happiness of life; Polluted, desolate, the cup of wrath Had pour'd its utmost fury on their heads. And there was one, whose image long hath dwelt, Like to a thought of sorrow on my soul: She had been beautiful, but now her cheek Was deadly pale; and from her parched lip The rose had fled, and left it colourless; And in her eye, one same expression dwelt, Of heartless, comfortless despondency! Her brow was care-worn, blighted by the scathe Of fell disease, which had destroy'd her prime, And wither'd youth, when youth is loveliest. She turn'd her from my look—the curious gaze, To sorrow is a piercing mockery.