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Yes! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower! The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power, Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale, And, fatal in its softness, day by day, Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.

But sink not yet—for there are darker woes, Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading, Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those Of lingering Death, which thus thine eye are shading! Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot, 'Tis Agony—but soon to be forgot!

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of Death? To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast The pale smooth brow, yet watch it, to the last!