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Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!—that thou shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly!* Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough— Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How may we love but in doubt and fear, How may we anchor our fond hearts here, How should e'en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?