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54
POEMS.
Unwelcome foe may ne'er intrude
The soul's deep peace to mar;
Nor doth one cloud of doubt enshroud
Faith's ever-beaming star.

No setting sun, no waning moon,
In this my world are seen;
Among the flowers, in these fair bowers,
No serpent's trail hath been.

Through this my world a healing stream
Of heaven-born pity flows;
Green on its banks the tree of Hope
Yields balm for heaviest woes.

I leave my world as quits the bird
Its quiet, downy nest,
To cheer with song the darkened home,
And gladden some sad breast.

For sight of sorrow lends a charm
To every poet's lay;
And human harps yield sweetest strains
When Grief's pale fingers play.

From venom nectar I distil,
And sparkling honey-dew;