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an infant, marble cold, Borne from the pillowing breast, And in the shroud's embracing fold Laid down to dreamless rest; And moved with bitterness I sighed, Not for the babe that slept, But for the mother at its side, Whose soul in anguish wept.

They bare a coffin to its place, I asked them who was there? And they replied "a form of grace,    The fairest of the fair." But for that blest one do ye moan, Whose angel-wing is spread? No, for the lover pale and lone, His heart is with the dead.

I wandered to a new-made grave, And there a matron lay, The love of Him who died to save, Had been her spirit's stay, Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain; Wail ye for her who died?