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THE NATIVE VILLAGE. 255
Or their low whisper, warning us to seek A home not made with hands ?
So may it be ;
And to that home eternal, every one Who here were wrapt in the frank fellowship Of simpler days, and mourn its loss with tears, Be gathered, where no more the blight of ill, Or fear of change, or sigh of pain shall steal, O'er the pure mingling of congenial souls.
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