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DEATH'S DOINGS.
Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou,
As thou fling'st the black veil from thy shadowy brow?
I know thee now, dark lord of the tomb,
By the pale maiden's withering bloom:
The light is gone from her glassy eye,
And her cheek is struck by mortality;
From her parted lip there comes no breath,
For that scroll was fate—its bearer—Death.
L. E. L.
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