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shadow of the yew-trees has left an open space; The sunshine rests upon it as if it loved the place. A growth of early primroses and green grass hides the tomb— How can it be the place of death with all the spring in bloom!

And she who there is sleeping, how ever could she die! So beautiful, so happy, death should have past her by. But last week she was singing in the fulness of her mirth— Can a place so soon be desolate as is her place of birth!

She had known one only dwelling, where every thing refers, With an agony of fondness, to something that was her's: The flowers she sowed are opening their blossoms to the spring; Her favourite bird is singing; how can they bloom—or sing!

But though the month be April, there is upon the air A shadow and a silence, though the sun and wind be there. For darkened are the windows, and lonely are the grounds, And sad low steps and voices with unfamiliar sounds.

For Margaret was so joyous, so full of youth's delight, You heard her song or laughter long ere she came in sight. Now that sweet voice is silent; it seems not stilled alone, But from parents, friends and servants, all life seems also gone.

Her mother has not spoken since the day she saw her last, When they closed the cruel coffin, and the pall was o'er it cast. And the bold Earl, her father, who has looked so oft on death, His eyes are wan with weeping, and he speaks below his breath.