DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN.
BY MRS. L.G. ABELL.
Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear;
So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near:
Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still,
And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill.
Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above,
With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love,
Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues revealed—