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And tie such flowers as droop’d from their own weight, 
Because he knew his mother’s love for flowers. 
There was one rose-bush — far or near its like 
Could not be found—a sort of village-wonder— 
That bush was her delight, and therefore his; 
And had it been endow’d with consciousness, 
lie scarce had tended it with nicer care ; 
Duly’t was watch’d and water’d, duly pruned, 
And it repaid him with unrivall’d bloom. 
Well may you guess how such sweet winning ways 
Would steal into her heart, her widowed heart; 
And oft, when through the lattice she look’d forth 
And saw him busy at liis duteous task, 
Tears would she shed, but they were not of grief. 
But I am tedious, and will hasten on. 
“ Years pass’d, and told on each. With him you saw 
Youth verging into manhood ; but in heart 
The same as ever, duteous, tender, kind. 
With her, alas ! they left far other tokens, 
Deep wrinkles, blanched locks, and failing strength'. 
Such was Time’s dealing with the outward frame. 
The mind he touch’d more gently; rather say, 
He aided sweet religion’s proper task, 
In healing grief’s dark ravages; and now 
