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me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; 'Tis early, early to depart, Belov'd!—yet this is death!

Look on me still:—let that kind eye Be the last light I see! Oh! sad it is in spring to die, But yet I die for thee!

For thee, my own! thy stately head Was never thus to bow;— Give tears when with me love hath fled, True love, thou know'st it now!