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Beside thee through the beating storms of life, With the true heart of unrepining love, As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, In the parch'd vineyard, or the harvest-field, Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat And burden of the day;—But now the hour, The heavy hour is come, when human strength Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, Owning that woe is mightier!—Spare me yet This bitter cup, my husband!—Let not her, The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, O'er its fall'n roses dying!

Urge me not, Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found Worthy a brave man's love, oh! urge me not To guilt, which through the midst of blinding tears, In its own hues thou seest not!— Death may scarce Bring aught like this!

All, all thy gentle race, The beautiful beings that around thee grew, Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?