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Rh :That Heaven-sent genius gave, The green blade with the golden grain; Alas! to bloom and beard in vain, Sheafed round a sick-room’s bed of pain,
 * And garnered in the grave.

They are far away, those sunny days, And since we watched their setting rays, The music of the voice of praise From many a land, and many a clime, Has greeted my astonished rhyme; Till half in doubt, half pleased, it curled Its queerest lip upon the world, But never heard I flattery’s tone Sounding around me, “Bard, well done!” Without a blessing on the One Who flattered first—the bonnie nurse Whose young hand rocked my cradled verse.

Long may her voice, as now, be near To prompt, to pardon, and to cheer; And long be smiles for goodness’ sake,
 * Upon her best of happy faces,

Like Spenser’s Una’s given to make
 * A sunshine in the shadiest places!