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23
A CRADLED CHILD.
(To E. A. G.)
Behold! the world's inheritance,
The treasure-trove of happy homes;
Whereby the poorest hut becomes
A fairy-palace of romance.
A cradle is the mother's shrine:
Two lamps o'erhang it—her sweet eyes.
Whose love-light falls, Madonna-wise,
On sleeping infancy divine.
