But now, they youngest, dearest one, has perish’d,

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,

Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish’d

And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!

Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,

The bloom, whose petals nipp’d before they blew

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste’

The broken lily lies–the storm is overpast.

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