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The night-flowers round that door, Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?— Hark, hark!—it is my mother's voice I hear— Sadder than once it seem'd—yet soft and clear— Doth she not seem to pray?

My name!—I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild— Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child, Take back the lost and found!