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DEATH OF A LADY.
SWEET spirit! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery;
The beam of morn was on the stream,
Thou wert not form'd for living here,
So link'd thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not form'd to die.