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 ES, I will hush my heart, as though it were A weakling babe, that could be rocked to sleep With gentle words and promises of good ; Dost hear, my little heart ? thou must not weep. We will go softly through this tangled wood, Lest we, perchance, on some poor worm may tread, Or brush against some panting wounded bird, And leave, what might have been the living, dead. And, lest some fellow-traveller be lost, And spending in the darkness fruitless toil, We will hold out a steady shining lamp, Although it burn our only cruse of oil.