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EDITOR'S PREFACE. |
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cup of sorrow was now too full—she could not bear it! For several weeks she lay on the verge of the grave, tortured with fever, and deliriously talking of her brothers. As her strength slowly returned, while the scenes through which she had passed seemed like the parts of a troubled dream, she listened once more to the consumptive's cough. Her misery was all repeated, in the slow decline and death of another to whom her affections clung,
"Like the close tendrils of the clinging vine."
Is it any wonder that her muse should drop a tear over the remembrance of pleasure, and thenceforth devote herself to the shades of the willow, and the memory of the dead ?
It is believed that the following poems—so simple, so true to nature, and so free from ob- scure allusions—will find an echoing chord in the hearts of thousands. They are offered to the public without apologies. Probably no book was ever yet published which was in no point open to criticism. The reader will be able to find here a few bad rhymes, some faults in
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