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 She wiped the death-dumps from his brow,

With her pale hands and soft.

Whose touch upon the late chords low,

Had still’d his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o’er his breast;

She bathed his lips with dew;

And on his cheek such kisses press’d,

As hope and joy ne’er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,

Enduring to the last!

he had her meed, one smile in death,

And his worn spirit pass’d.

While even as o’er a martyr’s grave,

She knelt on that sad spot;

And, weeping, bless’d the God who gave

Her strength to forsake it not!

Chloe, a maid at fifty-five,

Was at her toilette dressing;

Her waiting maid, with iron hot,

Each paper’d curl was pressing.

The looking glass her eyes engross,

While Betty humm’d a ditty;

She gazed so much upon her face,

She really thought it pretty.

Her painted cheeks and pencil brows

She could not but approve,

Her thoughts on varous subjects turn’d,

At length she fix’d on love:

"And shall," said she, "a virgin life

Await these pleasing charms?

And will not sighing blooming youth

Receive me to his arms?—