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ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.
'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just lessening in the upper sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, And for her step we listen, and the eye · Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel That she will no more come—that from her cheek The delicate flush has faded, and the light Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov’d, Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.
It is not the fear of death
That damps my brow;
I ask thee now;
And a quiet heart,
Ere I depart.
I can give up my mother's look
My sister's kiss;
A death like this !
I can give up the young fame
I burn’d to win-
I glory in!
Thine is the power to give,
Thine to deny,
Calmness to die.
By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish
By a soldier's death!
The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow
Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall Softly, and lie upon it. The hushed flow
Of the ice-covered waters, and the call
And the complaining of the gust, are all
The snow of years lie visibly, and so
And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,