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And Faith — oh ! is not Faith 

 Like thee, too, Lily? springing into hght, 

 Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 



Through the storm's breath? 



Yes, link'd with such high thoughts, 

 Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! 

 Till something there of its own purity 



And peace be wrought. 



Something yet more divine 

 Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 

 Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 



As from a shrine. 



