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Fain would we dwell
Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper,
Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven,
Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing,—
And were it not, that ever in our path
Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief,
Which we must watch, and bring their perfect fruit
To linger here, and be thy worshipper,
Until death's footstep broke this dream of life.
THE EN D.
LONDON: FISHER, SON, AND CO., PRINTERS