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Ah! never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When Hope, like a child, lay down to sleep Amid the folded flowers.

But Hope has wakened since, and wept Itself, like a rainbow, away; And the flowers have faded, and fallen around, We have none for a wreath to-day.

Now, Truth has taken the place of Hope, And our hearts are like winter hours; Little has after-life been worth That early dream of ours.

is the universal prescription for a wounded spirit. "It will do you so much good," is the constant remark. Perhaps it may; but how reluctant is any one who is