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TO THE MEMORY OF *******.
Though in her cheek soft Beauty's flow'r maintain'dIts loveliest bloom when Youth no longer reign'd;
Sweeter than Beauty or than Youth, the art
Which plucks the thorn from Sorrow's aching heart;
Which pours the balm of Pity on the wound,
A healing balm in Pity only found:
Such art, oh dear lamented Shade! was thine:
But, the balm lost, the cureless wound is mine.
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