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A tint like snow, from the young Almond's charms Strew'd lavishly around; while, sick at heart, The Peach, despairing mother, sees her babes Dead at her feet. Break forth in song, ye birds, From your cool nests, or on the buoyant wing, And be their comforters. Uphold their hearts With cheering descant of the season's prime, When their bereavement shall be lost in joy. Tell them that man, their culturer, oft beholds His beauty and his pride, like theirs, depart; But yet, from what he counted loss, doth reap A more enduring gain. Yea, bid them bide In faith and hope, the chastening of this hour, Yielding their fragrance to the tyrant winds— For God remembereth them. Lift high your strain, Minstrels of Heaven, and ask the sorrowing trees If those pale petals fell not, where would be The glory of their fruitage? or the praise Of the Great Master at the Harvest Day?