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And low and small the room; but still it had A look of comfort; on the white-washed walls Were ranged her many ocean treasures—shells, Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush Caught from the sunset on the waters; plumes From the bright pinions of the Indian birds; Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson berries, Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart. Her sailor brought them, when from his first voyage He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth. Like a memorial of far better days, The large old Bible, with its silver clasps, Lay on the table; and a fragrant air Came from the window: there stood a rose-tree— Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich