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WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smoothed and settled pillow rise ; Nor fly, till morning thro' the shutter streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.
Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
* On the death of her sister.
On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
As on she moves with hesitating grace,