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HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 
XVI, 
Oh, the birds, the tree, the ruddy 
And white blossoms, sleek with rain ! 
Oh, my garden, rich with pansies! 
Oh, my childhood, bright romances! 
All revive, like Heetor’s body, 
And I see them stir again | 
XVII. 
And despite life’s changes—enances, 
And despite the death-bell’s toll, 
They press on me in full seeming |— 
Help, some angel! stay this dreaming ! 
As the birds sang in the branches, 
Sing God’s patience through my soul! 
8 I g y 
XVIM. 
That no dreamer, no neglecter, 
Of the present’s work unsped, 
I may wake up and be doing, 
Life’s heroic ends pursuing, 
Though my past is dead as Hector, 
And though Hector is twice dead. 

