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And ever, as the story drained

The wells of fancy dry,

And faintly strove that weary one

To put the subject by,

" The rest next time — " " It is next time !"

The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland :

Thus slowly, one by one,

Its quaint events were hammered out —

And now the tale is done,

And home we steer, a merry crew.

Beneath the setting sun.

Alice ! a childish story take,

And with a gentle hand

Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined

In Memory's mystic band.

Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers

Pluck'd in a far-off land.