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29
TO MRS. CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.
O “Lady,” art thou not “elect”—to standAnd daily minister to one so dear,
Who, with his sweet-toned Muse, has won the ear
Of many a loving listener through the land:
Whose Sonnet-lyre, touched with a cunning hand,
Has wakened dulcet echoes, soft and clear,
Destined to wander on from year to year,
Nor ever fail “fit audience” to command.
Well may it all thy pious care engage
Our fragile Songster to defend from harm,
And keep him prisoner in his mortal cage:
That still with measured music he may charm
The cultured sense, till seasonable age
Lays his tired head on an Almighty arm!
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