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252 Where she, the Bride, a Mother now,
 * Encircled round with sons and daughters,

Waits my congratulary bow
 * To greet her cottage woods and waters;

And thou art proving, as in youth, By daily kindnesses, the truth And wisdom of the Scottish rhyme— “To make a happy fireside clime
 * For children and for wife,

Is the true pathos and sublime,”
 * And green and gold of Life.

From long-neglected garden-bowers Come these, my songs’ memorial flowers, With greetings from my heart, they come To seek the shelter of thy home; Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom, And all unmeet for gorgeous room Of “honor, love, obedience,
 * And troops of friends,” like thine.

I hope thou wilt not banish thence
 * These few and fading flowers of mine,

But let their theme be their defence, The love, the joy, the frankincense,
 * And fragrance o’.