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 WEET maid! whose life the frost of destiny Withered while yet its first spring-leaves were green; Pure, sainted being! from thy home on high, Look with thine eyes of love, upon the scene Where, for one little hour, thy spirit moved, A visitant—to love, and to be loved, And where thy song of youth to virtue gave The music of its praises—the green bowers Of home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers, And made the laurel dearer to the brave.

Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for thee Warmly, as when they beat beside thy bier. And still to them, of earthly things most dear And sacred, is thy pledge of memory— A father’s gift, whose every cherished word Bids the sweet echo of thy song be heard; And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be. Would it could soothe a mother’s griefs but they Are graven deep, and will not pass away!