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88 Had long lived, hoped, and feared for him alone; His voice their morning music, and his eye The only starlight of their evening sky, Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim, And life’s best joys were sorrows but with him; And when, the burning bullet in his breast, He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough, There was on heart that knew and loved him best— It was a mother’s—and is broken now.