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not ye, whose babe hath found Purer skies and firmer ground, Flowers of bright perennial hue, Free from thorns, and fresh with dew, Founts, that tempests never stir, Gardens, without sepulchre.

Mourn not ye, whose babe hath sped, From this region of the dead, To yon winged seraph-band, Golden lute and glorious land, Where no tempter's subtle art Clouds the brow or wounds the heart.

Knowledge, in that clime doth grow Free from weeds of toil and woe, Peace whose olive never fades, Love, undimmed by sorrow's shades, Joys, which mortals may not share, Mourn not ye, whose babe is there.