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Oh! she was good as she was fair.
And, as she grew, her modest grace,
Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace,
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted;
She, who would lead him where he went,
Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;
Which, when a tale is long, dispenses
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses.
In her who mourned not, when they missed her,
No more the orphan runs to take
Not now, his little lesson done,
With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun;
(Some story of the days of old,
Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told