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Her cheeks deep-dyed with bashful truth,
Otender yearning! O sweet hope !
Already how the pipes are brown'd!
For then a perfect tone we find,
Mid the bridal tresses slinging
Passion may fly,
Then endless wealth rushes in, like a stream,
The modest housewife,
The mother of children,
And wisely doth steer
The domestic sphere;
And schooleth the girls,
And ruleth the boys;
And plies without end
Her diligent hand;
And the stock doth enlarge
And never resting.
And the father, with cheerful look, From his home's far-seeing roof, Reckons o'er his flourishing stock; The lofty poles of the stacks discerns, And the well-filled spaces of the barns,