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But, Lucy, thine experience seems To show the folly of my dreams, And give my thoughts the lie.
THE EARLY DEAD.
Hast thou tears for those who die In the morning of their years,
Ere their bright and silvery sky Has been shadow'd o'er with-fears?
Mourn not for the early bless'd:
They have 'scaped the storms of life—
0, how tranquil is their rest, Undisturb'd by earthly strife!
Say'st thou, it were sad to leave All so beautiful and bright—
Hopes which Fancy loves to weave, Fresh with dews of new delight ?
Sad—yet sadder far to live Till each hope has fled forever;
And the thrill which pleasures give, Ceases through the heart to quiver!
Sadder far to linger on
Till the world is cold and changed; Till the fondest friends are gone,
And the warmest hearts estranged!