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Once, I walked abroad, when the dews of the morning still lingered upon the grass, and the white lillies drooped their beautiful bells, as if shedding tears of joy. Nature breathed a perpetual song, into the hearts of her most silent children. But I looked towards those whose souls have the gift of reason, and are not born to die. I said if the spirit of joy is in the frail flower that flourishes but for a day, and in the bird that bears to its nest a single crumb of bread, and in the lamb that knows no friend but its mother, how much purer must be their happiness, who are surrounded with good things as with a flowing river, and whose knowledge need have no limit but