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Our Idol

The Bunker Hill Aurora and Boston Mirror

Charlestown, Massachusetts

December 18, 1858

Close the door lightly,
Bridle the breath,
Our little earth-angel
Is talking with death;
Gently he woos her,
She wishes to stay,
His arms about her -
He bears her away.

Music comes floating
Down from the dome;
Angels are chanting
The sweet welcome home;
Come, stricken weeper,
Come to the bed,
Gaze on the sleeper -
Our idol is dead!

Smooth out the ringlets,
Close the blue eye -
No wonder such beauty
Was claimed in the sky;
Cross the hands gently
O'er the white breast,
So like a wild spirit
Strayed down from the blest;
Bear her out softly,
This idol of ours,
Let her grave slumbers
Be 'mid the sweet flowers.

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