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o'er the pavements roll'd, and a light form Just in the bud of blushing womanhood Press'd the paternal threshhold. Wrathful Night Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls. She stood, and shiver'd, but no mother's hand Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand Was with the cold, dull earth-worm. —Grey and sad, The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man, The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds Of her slain brothers, for the battle field, Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain, Where her sick father pined. Oft had he yearn'd For her sweet presence, oft, in midnight's watch, Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip Breathing his woes away. But distant far, She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks, Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile, And the pure music of his welcome-home, Rich guerdon of her labors. But there came A summons of surprise, and on the wings Of filial love she hasted. —'Twas too late! The lamp of life still burn’d,—yet 'twas too late.