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Rh

Some very dear ones are beside you now; But cold is here each smile that meets my own; It does not lighten o'er some long lov'd brow. ‘Tis vain to tell me soon again we meet— That thought but makes the weary hours depart More slowly: hope is sickness to the heart When we so oft its accents must repeat. Affection is, in absence, as the flower Transplanted from the soil which gave it birth— Dew has no freshness, sunshine has no power; Drooping, it pines for its lov'd native earth.