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82

N early youth's unclouded scene, The brilliant morning of eighteen, With health and sprightly joy elate We gazed on life's enchanting spring, Nor thought how quickly time would bring The mournful period—Thirty-eight.

Then the starch maid, or matron sage, Already at the sober age, We view'd with mingled scorn and hate; In whose sharp words, or sharper face, With thoughtless mirth we loved to trace The sad effects of—Thirty-eight.