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Oh! she was good as she was fair. None-none on earth above her! As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her. When little, and her eyes, her voice, Her every gesture said "rejoice," Her coming was a gladness; And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face,
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted;
Soon as the sun the glittering pane
But she is dead to him, to all!
Her lute hangs silent on the wall;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;
In her who mourned not, when they missed her,
The old a child, the young a sister?
No more the orphan runs to take
With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun;
Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told