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Fain would we dwell

Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper,
And from the weariness and dust of earth
Steal evermore away. Yea, were it not
That many a care doth bind us here below,
And in each care, a duty, like a flower,

Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven,
And in each duty, an enclosed joy,

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
Into our Master's garner, it were sweet

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

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