262 MARIE OF WURTEMBURG.
A loss thou canst not know,
Whose drear extent each opening year must show, Meets thee at the world's fair gate : Thy tender memory may not hold
The image of that scene of death, When the stern spoiler, all unmov'd and cold, Took thy sweet mother's breath, Thy father weeping by her side, As, powerless on his breast, she bow'd her head and died.
She might not lull thee to thy rest,
Or longer linger here, To dry thine infant tear, And share the unimagin'd zest
Of young maternity. But from her home, amid the blest,
Gazeth she not on thee ? Doth she not watch thee, when soft slumbers steep
Thy gentle soul in visions deep ? Press on thy waking eyes an angel's kiss, And bid thee rise at last to you pure realm of bliss ?
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