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THY heart's fond treasure, doting mother,
Is fresh from skies divinely bland;
Its eyes' soft lustre is no other
Than radiance of the sunny land.
So fragile and so low descended,
So far removed from its celestial power,
It need with angel care be tended,
Or it may wither in an hour.
Then gently to thy bosom press it,
And breathe thy love notes in its ear;
Their music has the power to bless it
With dreams of its own native sphere.
A seraph chord astray from heaven,
Oh, may it here no discord learn,
But, mellow as the voice of even,
Back to the sunny land return!
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