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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,
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 07:32:00