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(Whate'er their names amongst their fellow-men)
Were wash'd thus white in their Redeemer's blood.

It were not well these hallowed shades should lack
Observance due of art's accustomed works,
And virtue's claims to live for ages hence
In blest remembrance 'neath the public eye.
If, in the Pagan world, the sculptured fane
Told when a worthy citizen was gone,
A hero fall'n, a loving wife remov'd,
A beauteous daughter in her virgin bloom
Torn from the weeping parent, and the tomb
Was dight with mimic flowers and mourning nymphs,
And fond inscriptions eager to implore
The sympathetic sigh-why should not we
Thus grace the tomb?-thus sue for pity's tear?
Since it is sweet to all; yet even then,
Exult that “life and immortality,”
Given by the Gospel, sheds upon our graves
Hopes known not to their wisest. “Being dead
Yet speak they,” and how deep the lesson thrills
When sinks the sun, and twilight shadows fall
From their umbrageous woods on the white tomb,
Where with his loved ones the pale mourner looks,--
Ere long himself to lie.

Farewell, dear scene. “Pleasant thoa mournful,” thou
Hast touched my heart as by a master-spell,
Making it sweet to weep, and sweet to know,
That in a land so fair I first drew breath,
And gazed on thy bright landscape, gaining thence
Deep sense of all things beautiful and good.

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