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For the true-hearted soul deem'd a weather-stained face, Or a toil-harden'd hand, were no marks of disgrace. Then he beckon'd his nieces to rise from their seat, The plump Dandelion, and Butter-cup neat, And bade them to "pack up their duds, and away, He believ'd in his heart 'twas the break of the day. "And high time it is, for good people," said he, "At home, and in bed, with their households to be."

'Twas indeed very late,—and the coaches were brought, For the grave matron flowers of their nurseries thought; The lustre was dimmed of each drapery rare, And the lucid young brows looked beclouded with care; All, save the bright Cereus,—that nymph so divine, Who preferr'd through the curtains of midnight to shine: