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Rh

First from her maiden's circling arms The youngest (and perchance the bride Preferred for her retiring charms) Has lightly sprung, and flung aside Her ornaments—and those rich pearls, The diamonds, and the ruby studs, She showers among the weeping girls Blithely, as when her garden's buds She scattered in those blissful hours, When life itself seemed made of flowers The croud is hushed to silence—now Her spirit soars on bird-like wings, A slight flush lights her gentle brow, And with a voice divine she sings.

I love, I love my native vales! The sighing of their perfumed gales To me is sweet, and sweeter still The music of the bubbling rill.