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Rest, from the blush of love; Rest, from the blight of care, From the sweet nursing of your buds, And from the nipping air; Rest, from the fever-thirst Of summer's noontide heat, From coiling worm, and rifling hand, That vex'd your lone retreat.

If e'er ye thrilled with pride, When the admirer knelt, Or on the lowly look'd with scorn, Which man for man hath felt, If through your bosoms pure Hath aught like evil flow'd, (Since folly may with angels dwell,) Rest from that painful load.

But not with grief or fear, Bow down the drooping head; See! in the chamber of your birth Your dying couch is spread; Go! strong in faith, ye flowers; Strong in your guileless trust, With the returning birds, to rise Above imprisoning dust.