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THE MOURNING LOVER.
At her Redeemer's feet. Grey morning came,
And still her white cheek on that holy page
Did calmly rest. Her's was that quiet sleep
Which hath no wakening here. Fled from her brow
Was every trace of pain, and in its stead
Methought the angel who so long had been
Her comforter, had left a farewell-gift,
That smile which in the Court of Heaven doth beam.
