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MODEST WORTH. 
187 
PRIMROSE. 
Primula. 
Language MODEST WORTH. 
And while " Lord ! Lord ! " the pious tyrants cried 
Who in the poor their Master crucified, 
His daily prayer, far better understood 
In acts than words, was simply doing good. 
Whittibk. 
Abou Ben Adheim (may his tribe increase) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adheim bold. 
And to the presence in his room he said, 
" What writest thou ? " The vision raised its head. 
And, with a look made all of sweet accord. 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 
" And is mine one ? " said Adheim. " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still, and said, " I pray thee, then. 
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." 
The angel came again, next night. 
With a long train of wakening light. 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
And lo ! Ben Adheim's name led all the kest. 
Leigh Hunt. 
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