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And hail, Aurora! still by thee
Our mother Earth's caressed;
And in return we worship thee,
Yea all pronounce thee blest.
Lo! they come from greenwood bowers,
Bands of maids with fresh-culled flowers;
To thee no death doomed lamb they bring,
Nor burned, nor blood stained offering,
To deck thy turfy shrine;
But swiftly, gaily, borne aloft
By healthful breeze, thy favours oft
They tell, thy name divine.
Oh! grant their prayers, inspire their praise,
While unto thee their pure and thankful chant they raise.
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