| The sun descending in the West
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| The evening star does shine;
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| The birds are silent in their nest
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| And I must seek for mine
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| The moon, like a flower
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| In heaven’s high bower
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| With silent delight
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| Sits and smiles on the night
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| Farewell, green fields and happy groves
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| Where flocks have took delight
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| Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
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| The feet of angels bright;
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| Unseen, they pour blessing
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| And joy without ceasing
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| On each bud and blossom
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| And each sleeping bosom
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| They look in every thoughtless nest
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| Where birds are covered warm;
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| They visit caves of every beast
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| To keep them all from harm:
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| If they see any weeping
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| That should have been sleeping
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| They pour sleep on their head
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| And sit down by their bed
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| When wolves and tigers howl for prey
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| They pitying stand and weep;
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| Seeking to drive their thirst away
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| And keep them from the sheep
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| But, if they rush dreadful
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| The angels, most heedful
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| Receive each mild spirit
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| New worlds to inherit
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| And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
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| Shall flow with tears of gold:
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| And pitying the tender cries
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| And walking round the fold:
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| Saying: 'Wrath by His meekness
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| And, by His health, sickness
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| Is driven away
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| From our immortal day
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| 'And now beside thee, bleating lamb
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| I can lie down and sleep
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| Or think on Him who bore thy name
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| Graze after thee, and weep
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| For, washed in life’s river
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| My bright mane for ever
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| Shall shine like the gold
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| As I guard o’er the fold |