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Poem by Henry Livingston
To My Little Niece Sally Livingston
To my little niece Sally Livingston, on the death of a little serenading wren she admired. Hasty pilgrim stop thy pace Turn a moment to this place Read what pity hath erected To a songster she respected. Little minstrel all is o’er Never will thy chirpings more Soothe the heavy heart of care Or dispel the darkness there. I have known thee e’er the sun Hath on yonder mountain shone; E’er the sky-lark hath ascended, Or the thrush her throat distended; Cheerful trill thy little ditty As the singer, blithe and pretty. Labour stood, half bent to hear, Study lent a list’ning ear, Dissipation stop’d a while, Grief was even seen to smile, Ambition - but the gushing tear O’erwhelms the stone and stops me here.
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