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In a drear hour of grief or wrath,— Her path was as an angel's path, Known only by the flowers which spring Beneath the influence of its wing; And that her high and holy mood Was such as suited solitude. Still she had gentle words and smiles, And all that sweetness which beguiles, Like sunshine on an April day, The heaviness of gloom away. It was as the souls weal were sure When prayer rose from lips so pure.

She left us;—the same evening came Tidings of woe, and death, and shame. Her guard had been attack'd by one Whose love it had been her's to shun.