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39

Ah! cou'd my Muse but paint the deep distress,
The artless force which Mary's woes confess.
Your gentle heart cou'd not refuse a tear,
Sacred to pity, and to virtue dear.
Each hope of future bliss forever flown,
Doom'd through Lifes dreary vale to mourn alone.
Yet Mary dares to live, and lives to prove,
Duty superior even to the love.
She checks with anxious care the rising sigh,
Dashes the big drop from her trembling eye,
And for her Parents sakes assumes the art,
To hide the cank'ring sorrow in her heart.
Still as before her cheerful toils they bless,
And thoughtless of her own, she forms their
Happiness.-

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