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The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak and
And laurel leaves entwine,
On haggard face and form that droop'd Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine!
FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
A month or more hath she been dead,
A springy motion in her gait,
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.