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plant, of slender form, Fair, and shrinking from the storm, Raise thou here, thy timid head, Bloom in this uncultur'd bed: Thou, of firmer spirit, too, Stronger texture, deeper hue, Dreading not the blasts that sweep, Rise, and guard its infant sleep.

Fear ye not the lonely shade Where the bones of men are laid; Short, like yours, their transient date,— Keen hath been the scythe of fate. Forth, like plants, in glory drest, They came upon the green earth's breast, Spread forth their roots to reach the stream,— Their blossoms, toward the rising beam,