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FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.
Hold me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;
'Tis early, early to depart,
Belov'd!—yet this is death!
Look on me still:—let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!
For thee, my own! thy stately head
Was never thus to bow;—
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know'st it now!
