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The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, A record of lost love?

Mother.My Lillian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian.Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world's billows to be thrown Without thy love—O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashioned, that for them God's touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!— We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,