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ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE.

SAY. ghastly, pale, and ruthless death!
That stopp'd my Sarah's balmy breath;
That stole the roses from her cheek,
And clos'd those eyes that seem'd to speak;
That hush'd the music of her tongue,
On which such notes seraphic hung;
Why should thy aim so partial be?
Ah! why not aim thy shaft at me?
Why leave me here on earth to roam,
In sad remembrance of that home
Where hours, and days, and years, I've sate
With my belov'd, angelic mate?

Why should I hopeless here remain,
To sing one dull and pensive strain ;
Or frantic, wand'ring, lift my eyes,
To chase her spirit through the skies?
O listen to the boon I crave,
And close me in my Sarah's grave!

Printed by M. Hage,
Newark.

FINIS.

G. S. Carey.

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