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THE FOUNDLING.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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71

THE FOUNDLING.

What time the wandering mother Night
Made ready to depart,
A new-born, trembling Dream of Light
She laid upon my heart.
“Keep it,” she sighed, and bending low
Wept o'er it where it lay;
Then, suddenly as April snow,
Went vanishing away.