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came like a friend to restore thee To those who had died before thee: Father, mother, Sister, brother— There were none of these to mourn o’er thee.

But now that Death has found thee, Thy kindred and friends are round thee; In their rest they are laid In the dark yew shade, And cold sleep like their own has bound thee.

Thou wert a lonely flower, Sprung on a ruined tower, Which, with head declined, Awaits the first wind To end its summer hour.

Thou wert fair as a poet's dreaming, With thy black hair wildly streaming; But the hectic sign Of thy health's decline Was not long for this world's seeming.

All felt that thy doom was spoken— Thy brow was its own pale token; Thy cheek's changing dye, And thy drooping eye— These told thy young heart was broken.

Strangers who watched thy weeping, Sought to win thee from fruitless keeping Thy thoughts of pain; Their care was in vain, For thy heart in the grave was sleeping.

They found no joy could move thee, And coldly they ceased to love thee; Thou alone wert left Of all hope bereft, Save the one in the heaven above thee.

Now the sweet wild flowers are dying, And the wind o'er thy grave is sighing; Not for thy sad sake Should we wish to break The deep sleep upon thee lying. L. E. L.