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And looking round upon each lovely thing, And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring To her no beauty and no solacing. 'Tis ! Her prayer was not in vain. The truant-child has sought her home again! It must be worth a life of toil and care,— Worth those dark chains the wearied one must bear Who toils up fortune's steep,—all that can wring The worn-out bosom with lone-suffering,— Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, And long-deferred hopes of many years,— To reach again that little quiet spot, So well loved once, and never quite forgot;— To trace again the steps of infancy, And catch their freshness from their memory!