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"Contentment, rosy, dimpled maid, Thou brightest daughter of the sky, Why dost thou to the hut repair, And from the gilded palace fly I've trac'd thee on the peasant's cheek; I've mark'd thee in the milkmaid's smile; I've heard thee loudly laugh and speak, Amid the sons of want and toil; Yet in the circles of the great, Where fortune's gifts are all combin'd, I've sought thee early, sought thee late, And ne'er thy lovely form could find."

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