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54 MRS. LITTLE. Reclining in that ancient wicker chair; A veteran soldier he, of those proud times When first our freedom's banner kissed the air: His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes, When wakening memory his aged heart sublimes. But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known Full oft the pelting of the winter storm? Through its fringed hood a strong wild face is shown, Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldam's form; There's none of all these youth with vigour warm, Who dare by slightest word her anger stir, So dark the frown that does her face deform, That half the frighted villagers aver, The very de'il himself, incarnate is in her. Yet now the sibyl wears her mildest mood; And round her see the anxious silent band. Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood, As close she peers in that fair maiden's hand, Who scarce the struggles in her heart can stand. Affection's strength has made her nature weak, She of her lovely looks hath lost command; The flecker'd red and white within her cheek — Oh, all her love it doth most eloquently speak! Thy doting faith, fond maid, might envied be, And half excused the superstitious art. Now, when the sibyl's mystic words to thee The happier fortunes of thy love impart, Thrilling thy soul in its most vital part, How does the throb of inward ecstasy Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart All o'er thy varying cheek; like some clear sea, Where the red morning-glow falls full, but tremblingly!
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 16:33:16
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 17:14:08
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 20:57:22