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sleeps!—but not the free and sunny sleep That lightly on the brow of childhood lies: Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, Yet, ere it sunk upon her shadowed eyes, Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'erswept Her soul's meek stillness:—she had prayed and wept.

And now in visions to her couch they come, The early lost—the beautiful—the dead— That unto her bequeathed a mournful home, Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled; They rise—the sisters of her youth arise, As from the world where no frail blossom dies.