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Or to your secret bower In lonely sadness stole, To muse o'er hoarded word and smile, Those jewels of the soul; You've borne a precious name Upon your soul-breathed prayer, And at the threshold of the skies Reposed your anxious care.

The unutter'd pang you've felt, The bursting tear represt, And shut the rankling anguish close Within your burden'd breast; Or worn the outward smile, The hollow greeting said, Till darkly on the springs of life The smother'd sorrow fed.

To twine the spring-tide wreath, And mourn o'er autumn's bier, The hope to win, the joy to lose, This is our history here; To find the rose, whose bloom Nor thorn nor blight hath riven, To meet, and never more to part, Is not of earth, but heaven.