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THE FIRST BALL.
Why should I speak these words of doom
To one of fairy glee?
Alas! who ever look'd on bloom,
Nor thought how it would be?
Soon, nothing but a thing to keep,
For weary memory to weep,
And thus it is with thee;
For all thy beauty and thy breath
Are nurst by care, to end in death!
L. E. L.
