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How sad, how strange to think the shade, The copy faint of beauty made, Should be the only wreck that death Shall leave of so much bloom and breath. The cheek, long since the earth-worm's prey, Beside the lovely of to-day Here smiles as bright, as fresh, as fair, As if of the same hour it were.

There pass'd a step along the hall, And started as if all Her treasures, secret until now, Burnt in the blush upon her brow. There was a something in their meeting, A conscious trembling in her greeting, As coldness from his eye might hide The struggle of her love and pride;