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O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow past,And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile:As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while:--Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
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