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A few short sufferings yet—and Death shall be As a bright messenger from Heaven to thee.

But ask not—hope not—one relenting thought From him who doomed thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay, And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace.

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel—and thy tomb, A martyr's shrine, be hallowed in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.

Lift thy meek eyes to Heaven—for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee—Thou art lone—