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The very tune which last she played to me Has open'd to my hand, and 'twixt the leaves The little flower lies press'd which then I gave her!

'T is sweet to find it so.

But, oh! how sad! She wasshe was(Bursting into tears.) Well may I weep for her!

Be comforted, dear Alice! she is gone Where neither pain nor woe can touch her more.

I know—I know it well: but she is gone! She who was fair, and gifted, and beloved: And so beloved!—Had it been Heaven's blest will To take me in her stead, tears had been shed, But what had been their woe, compared to this?

Whose woe, dear Alice?