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Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

IF I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone,

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

"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,
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more: There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore!

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