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8 Couldst thou once know the tender bliss

The sympathising bosowbosom [sic] knows.

When at meek sorrow's sacred touch,

Responsive sadness round it flows.

No more thy brow would wear that frown,

Thy glance no more so sternly dart,

But joys would glitter in thine eye,

And peace cling gladly to thy heart.

FINIS 