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The Sheffield cemetery.

Mrs. Hoffland.1
Methinks the wide earth, in its fairest lands,
Hath not one spot more meet for man's repose,
Than this most lovely scene. Amid these shades,
In contemplative hope, we still may meet
The dear, the lov'd, the honor'd — may imbibe
The solace our bereaved hearts require,
When life's most tender ties in twain are torn,
And chill despair is seated on love's throne.

In pure religion's, or in reason's eye,
It nought avails, whether the friend we lose
Moulders, amid a thousand festering forms,
In the foul pit of pestilence, or rests
In marble sepulchre;--we know God's voice
Will, from old Ocean's central caves, and Earth's

1 In offering to the reader this, we believe the latest, poetical production of an accomplished lady whose pen has added so much to the world's happiness, it is proper to remark that she is a native of the town named in the title.

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Hoffland (1)
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