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Like these twin Roses spend your Time,
— Life's little, less'ning span ; Then be your breasts as free from cares, Your hours as innocent as theirs.
And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms, Mark the dear promise of a rose,
The pledge of future charms. That o'er your withering hours shall shine. Fair, and more fair, as you decline ; —
Till, planted in that realm of rest,
Where Roses never die, Amidst the gardens of the blest,
Beneath a stormless sky. You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod. That blossom'd at the sight of God.
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