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Rh

With sweet and bitter thoughts! There might be rest— The wounded dove will flee into her nest— That mother's arms might fold her child again. The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, And falsehood be remembered no more, In that calm shelter:—and she might weep o'er Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she To whom she knelt found pardon in the eyes Of Heaven, in offering for sacrifice A broken heart? And might not pardon be Also for her? She looked up to the face Of that pale saint; and in that gentle brow, Which seemed to hold communion with her thought, There was a smile which gave hope energy. She prayed one deep wild prayer,—that she might gain The home she hoped:—then sought that home again.