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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,
And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere—the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish! It is like
The melting of a star into the sky
While you are gazing on it, or a dream
In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.

ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.

It is not the fear of death

That damps my brow;
It is not for another breath

I ask thee now;
I can die with a lip unstirr’d

And a quiet heart,
Let but this prayer be heard

Ere I depart.

I can give up my mother's look

My sister's kiss;
I can think of love-yet brook

A death like this !

I can give up the young fame

I burn’d to win-
All—but the spotless name

I glory in!

Thine is the power to give,

Thine to deny,
Joy for the hour I live-

Calmness to die.
By all the brave should cherish,

By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish

By a soldier's death!

SONNET- WINTER.

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
Of the cold driver to his oxen slow,

And the complaining of the gust, are all
That I can hear of music-would that I
With the green summer like a leaf might die !
So will a man grow gray, and on his head

The snow of years lie visibly, and so
Will come a frost when his green years have fled

And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,
And his deep voice be shaken--would that I
In the green summer of my youth might die !

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