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My blessed sire, we bore his chair at early summer morn, That he might sit among your bowers and see your blossoms born; While meek and placid smiles around his reverend features played, The language of that better land, where ye no more shall fade.

Shall I see you, once again, sweet flowers, when Spring returneth fair, To strew her breathing incense upon the balmy air? Will you lift to me your infant heads? For me with fragrance swell? Alas! why should I ask you thus, what is not yours to tell.

I know, full well, before your buds shall hail the vernal sky, That many a younger, brighter brow, beneath the clods must lie; And if my pillow should be there, still come in beauty free, And show my little ones the love that you have borne to me.