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The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall :rouse them from their lowly bed.

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For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; ..
No children run to lisp th

sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bow'd the woods-beneath their sturdy stroke !

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