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He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood Pour'd forth in slumber, is allow'd more time To wean his turbulent passions from the world His presence doth pollute!— It is not thus! We must have Time to school us.

We have but To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice Calls back the things we love.

Love! love!—there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skilful to put on The look we trust in—and 'tis mockery all! —A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled!—There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart.—It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Aye, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path, But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long