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LETTERS. 119
Briers, sharp and thorny,
Fierce-stinging nettles,
Spring by the way-side,
Yet fear them not.
Soon shall a tender
Hand be up-raiséd,
Smoothing its roughness,
Strewing with thornless
Roses thy path.
Spirits of evil,
Dark and malignant,
Lurk ’mid the od’rous
Flow’r-laden coverts,
Yet fear them not;
For on love’s snow-white
Pinions upspringing,
Guarding thy young brow,
Heavenward hovers
A mother’s prayer.
Angels aforetime
Guided the pilgrim
Up to the holy
Hills of the faithful.
Blest was his lot!
Slumbering pilgrim,
Wake from thy dreaming!
Morning already
Glows in the welkin,
Whilst at thy side an
Angel is waiting:
Waiting to lead thee
Up to yon sun-bright
Heights of the blessed,
Where spring eternal,
With its green palm-branch, .
Crowneth the feeble
Though faithful strivings
Of mortal man.
Who is the guardian
Angel that watches
O’er thy young life? .
Whose is that fair form
Over thy cradle,
Singing and weeping
Tears of delight ?
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