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Was white with dew, but early steps had been And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb: 'Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name That many stopped to read—a Soldier's name— And two were kneeling by it, one who had Been weeping; she was widow to the brave, Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling. From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled, But beauty still was there, that softened grief, Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt Too deeply for forgetfulness; her look, Fraught with high feelings and intelligence, And such as might beseem the Roman dame Whose children died for liberty, was made More soft and touching by the patient smile Which piety had given the unearthly brow,