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Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
WRITTEN IN G. ERMANY.
"TIs sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.
And sweet it is, in summer bower,
One's own dear children feasting round,
But what is all, to his delight,
Throws off the bundle from his back,
Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
There's Healing only in thy wings,
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
THE VISIONARY HOPE.
SAt lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling