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I gaze upon this ringlet darkly shining,
Which gleam'd upon a forehead, guileless, fair,
While with prophetic glance I am divining The fate of that sweet girl who wore this hair.
Not yet have time and care eclipsed the brightness
Of the soft curls that o'er her temples stray, Nor sorrow dimm'd the pure, unsullied whiteness
Of that fair forehead where this ringlet lay.
How oft a mother's hand has fondly press'd it Close to her bosom with a calm delight!
Oft has a mother's heart as fondly bless'd it, And fain would she have kept it always bright.
Perchance she smooth'd it, when in silence kneeling,
Beside the altar, red with hallow'd blood, While the bright angel was the cov'nant sealing,
Which consecrated there her child to God.
Already have that mother's cold, white fingers, Forever ceased to twine this ringlet fair!
Already has that love, which latest lingers, Breathed o'er her darling one a dying prayer/