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     Oh, for that hidden strength which can
Nerve unto death the inner man!
     Oh, for thy spirit, tried and true,
And constant in the hour of trial,
     Prepared to suffer, or to do,
In meekness and in self-denial.

Oh, for that spirit, meek and mild,
     Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining;
By man deserted and reviled,
     Yet faithful to its trust remaining.
Still prompt and resolute to save
     From scourge and chain the hunted slave;
Unwavering in the Truth's defence,
     Even where the fires of Hate were burning,
The unquailing eye of innocence
     Alone upon the oppressor turning!

O loved of thousands! to thy grave,
     Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee.
The poor man and the rescued slave
     Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee;
And grateful tears, like summer rain,
     Quickened its dying grass again!
And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
     Shall come the outcast and the lowly,
Of gentle deeds and words of thine
     Recalling memories sweet and holy!

Oh, for the death the righteous die!
     An end, like autumn's day declining,
On human hearts, as on the sky,
     With holier, tenderer beauty shining;

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