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THE LONG, long night of Storm and Strife is past; Alike the grasses spring o’er friend and foe; And thou, brave heart, whose voice outrode the blast— Whose kindling thought made every beacon glow— O friend, who would’st my future work forecast Pointing this idle pen to higher things— In these poor songs to thee I still cling fast; I read, and lo, thy clarion voice still rings And in mine own refrain, it is thy thought that sings. |