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Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven, The woodman and the mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! They do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the peasant's breast, And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know When they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come—let us search for violets.

Child. Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers?

Father. Wilt thou know more?