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have done well, my brethren. Thus to cast The balm of healing at the fountain's head Was wisely done. For on the thousand streams That murmur freshly round your hallowed homes Its blessedness shall flow. Well have ye scanned With philosophic eye, their latent worth, Who in the weakness of a tender frame, And shrinking consciousness of ill, might seem Of utile import. Yet those fragile forms, Now trembling in their beauty and their fear, Shall kindle with new energies: high hope And martyr-like endurance, and deep strength To toil untired, to suffer and be still, And all those deathless sympathies that spring Up from a mother's love. These shall be theirs; And what you trust to them of mental wealth, Knowledge, or virtue, or the truth of God, Shall blossom round the cradle of your sons, And bear rich harvest in your country's fame. Realms there have been, which, like your own did rend A despot's shackles from their giant-breast, And rush to freedom. But the baneful breath Of ignorance, or luxury, or sin, Swept o'er them as a siroch, and they sank Amid the waste of ages. They, perchance, Did look on woman as a worthless thing, A cloistered gem, a briefly-fading flower, Remembering not that she had kingly power