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EPITAPH.
 
 


264

EPITAPH.

O that the icy touch of death should blight,
Just in the bloom of youth, a form so bright;
When smiling hope illumed a cultured mind,
Rich in endowments of the fairest kind!
By all respected, by the good approved,
By kindred hearts, how tenderly beloved!
Yet, cease to mourn—for virtue cannot die—
The youth still lives in realms beyond the sky.