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And when the storm lias work’d His will who gave 
Strength to the wind and fury to the wave, 
He, like the bird which told the flood’s decrease, 
Would yield to thee at last like pledge of love and peace. 
Oh! were it mine to choose from earthly bower 
Aught that might shape, with talismanic power, 
Thy future path, not Beauty’s type — the rose — 
Should tempt my hand, because ’mid thorns it grows; 
Nor myrtle’s lovelorn spray, 
Nor ivy-wreath, nor bay, 
Should thy fair brow entwine, 
Or in thy bosom shine. 
All, all which they proclaim,— 
Mirth, beauty, pleasure, fame, — 
Child of my heart! I gladly would resign, 
If but that richer boon — sweet peace — be thine. 
What would I more ? If but to thee be given 
The olive-bough on earth, — the conqueror’s palm in 
heaven! 
