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And yet I cannot hope that thou wilt tarry, Till age has dropp'd his frosts upon thy brow;
Thou canst not far life's heavy burden carry, Consumption was thy kindred's deadly foe.
Were I to ask some lofty boon from Heaven, And but one boon, thou dearest child, for thee ;
And could but one, sweet girl, to thee be given, "What should I ask, while on my bended knee ?
Not that life's path, through, prosp'rous vales
descending, Might lead thee onward, through far-length-
en'd years; Nor yet, that health, and hope, and pleasure
blending, Might leave no room for sorrow, pain, and tears !
But that thy brow, whose curls may wear the gleaming
Of the hoar frosts of winter's clouded sky, Or, in an early grave lose all their beaming,
Might wear a diadem of bliss on high!
MY SISTER. She was the youngest, and the first to die, She with the ringlets bright, the star-lit eye: Even now fond mem'ry calls her from the tomb: She comes in all her beauty, all her bloom I