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DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

We had a Rose,—its breast
Was bright with pearly dew,
Nor blight, nor time had stain'd the flower,
Yet it sank away from its cherish'd bower,
It faded where it grew.

243

We had a Harp,—'tis gone,
We will not say 'tis broken,—
No—no,—its tones are deep and high,
Where music wraps in melody,
Each thought by angels spoken.