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BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
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Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,
And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:
She braided her hair, with their burning light,
Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.
Then she folded, over her form of grace,
A costly robe from an Indian loom
But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,