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found strange beauty on that polished brow And dashed it out.— There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip.—He touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded.— Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear.—With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids Forever.— There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears.—The Spoiler set His seal of silence.— But there beamed a smile So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed—and left it there.— He dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.