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     Hasten, for the oars are falling;
Hark, our merry mates are calling;
     Time it is that we were all in,
Singing tideward down the bay! “
     ” Nay, nay, let me stay;
Sore and sad for Robert Rawlin
     Is my heart, “she said, ‘to-day.’

“Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin!
     Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling,
Or some French lass, singing gay;
     Just forget as he's forgetting;
What avails a life of fretting?
     If some stars must needs be setting,
Others rise as good as they.”
     ‘Cease, I pray; go your way!’
Martha cries, her eyelids wetting;
     ‘Foul and false the words you say!’

Martha Mason, hear to reason!
     Prithee, put a kinder face on!”
‘Cease to vex me,’ did she say;
     “Better at his side be lying,
With the mournful pine-trees sighing,
     And the wild birds o'er us crying,
Than to doubt like mine a prey;
     While away, far away,
Turns my heart, forever trying
     Some new hope for each new day.

When the shadows veil the meadows,
     And the sunset's golden ladders
Sink from twilight's walls of gray,—

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