8
She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hand and soft,
Whose touch upon the late chords low,
Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast;
She bath'd his lips with dew;
And on his cheek such kisses press'd,
As hope and joy ne'er knew.
Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed, one smile in death,
And his worn spirit pass'd,
While, even as o'er a martyr's grave,
She knelt on that sad spot;
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Her strength to forsake it not!
BILLY DIP.
Chloe, a maid at fifty-five,
Was at her toilette dressing;
Her waiting-maid, with iron hot,
Each paper'd curl was pressing.
The looking-glass her eyes engross,
While Betty humm'd a ditty;
She gazed so much upon her face,
She really thought it pretty.
Her painted cheeks and pencill'd brows
She could not but approve,
Her thoughts on various subjects turn'd,
