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482 AMELIA B. WELBY.

SEVENTEEN.

I HAVE a fair and gentle friend,
Whose heart is pure, I ween,
As ever was a maiden's heart
At joyous seventeen;
She dwells among us like a star,
That, from its bower of bliss,
Looks down, yet gathers not a stain
From aught it sees in this.

I do not mean that flattery
Has never reach'd her ear;
I only say its syren song
Has no effect on her;
For she is all simplicity,
A creature soft and mild——
Though on the eve of womanhood,
In heart a very child.

And yet, within the misty depths
Of her dark dreamy eyes,
A shadowy something, like deep thought,
In tender sadness lies;
For though her glance still shines as bright
As in her childish years,
Its wildness and its lustre, now,
Are soften'd down by tears:——

Tears, that steal not from hidden springs
Of sorrow and regret,
For none but lovely feelings
In her gentle breast have met,

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 07:32:00