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The girl who rears a sickly plant,

Or cherishes a wounded dove,
Will love them most while most they want

The watchfulness of love!

Time must have changed that fair young brow,

Time might have changed that spotless heart ; Years might have brought deceit,—but now

In love's confiding dawn we part ! Ere pain and grief had sown decay,

My babe is cradled in the tomb, — Like some fair blossom torn away

In all its purest bloom.

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Handor

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