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I saw once more that aspect bright— The boy's meek head was bow'd In silence o'er the Book of Light, And like a golden cloud, The still cloud of a pictur'd sky— His locks droop'd round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem'd him fair, When in the fountain glade, A creature of the sky and air, Almost on wings he play'd; Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit the young human being's brow!

The being born to toil, to die, To break forth from the tomb, Unto far nobler destiny Than waits the sky-lark's plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower.