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125

VERSES.
In early mom, ere yet the light
Hath oped its golden wings, and shed
A world of beauty on the sight,
The night's soft shadows scarcely fled,
Ere the first note of bird hath blest
The ah-,earth lies in holy rest.

When evening's sober mantle grey
Veils nature's beauty in repose,
The hum of cities dies away,
And the last bee forsakes the rose;
And peace her vigil there doth keep,
And close th even eyes that weep.

And in the bosom of the good
The sacred inmate ever dwells,
Blest in its own calm sanctitude,
In cities, or in hermit cells;
With holier light than golden day,
Guiding the traveller on his way.