Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till;
All was a thorn or weed.
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This made him long for home, as loth to stay
With murmurers and foes;
He sigh’d for Eden, and would often say
‘Ah! what bright days were those!’
Nor was heav’n cold unto him: for each day
The valley or the mountain
Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay