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From which, for heav’u, she scarce would part 
The loving, lowly, contrite heart! 
She hath (though rarely there, I ween) 
In courts and stately halls been seen; 
More frequent in the humble cot, 
Smoothing the peasant’s rugged lot; 
In busy mart, and dusky street 
Sometimes her gentle form we meet; 
And sometimes by the loathsome bed 
Wiere squalid sickness rests her head. 
Go,—pierce yon murky alley, where 
None ever breathed untainted air, 
Where all in vain the glorious sun 
Struggles to chase the smoke-wreaths dun : 
Ascend yon broken, winding stair, 
Enter that room, what meets thee there ? 
Nay, shrink not with fastidious pride, 
But take thy stand that couch beside; 
There, though disease, and want, and pain, 
Their victim bind with triple chain, 
There shalt thou see earth’s noblest sight, 
A spirit wing’d for heavenward flight. 
There Peace, sweet Peace, has found her way, 
And turn’d thick midnight into day. 
