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His cheek was flushed with its own rose, And with the crimson shed From the rich wings that like a cloud Were o'er his slumbers spread.

And by him lay his feathered shafts, His golden bow unbent;— Methought that, even in his sleep, His smile was on them sent.

I heard them hymn his name—his power,— I heard them, and I smiled; How could they say the earth was ruled By but a sleeping child?

I went then forth into the world To see what might be there;