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Ah, Bertha mine! thy childhood was thrice bless'd, Thy young mind sanctified, and after life Made holy by the memory of the past. I knew no mother's care to teach my lips Those prayers that like good angels keep the heart From uncurb'd passions, that lay waste and curse. But Bertha, my sweet Bertha! thou shalt be My soul's religion, and my prayers will rise Welcome and purified when blent with thine. But come, methinks the funeral urn has lent Its marble to thy cheek: thy hair is wild; The dew has half unloosed its graceful curl. The lamps around burn dim in the thick air: Come, let me wrap my cloak around thee, love;