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Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile
Laughs into goodness her seeming guile.
Aye, was she not in mercy sent
To heal the friendships pride had rent?
Is she not here a blessed saint
To work all good by subtle feint?
Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame,
Our Lady of Furness?—the same, the same

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O holy one, we know thee now,
O gracious one, before thee bow,
Help us, Mary, hallow'd one,
Bless us, for thy wondrous Son—