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     And human fear have drawn about
The all-awaiting scene of death.

Even as thou wast I see thee still;
     And, save the absence of all ill
And pain and weariness, which here
     Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear,
The same as when, two summers back,
     Beside our childhood's Merrimac,
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er
     Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore,
And heard thy low, soft voice alone
     Midst lapse of waters, and the tone
Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown,
     There's not a charm of soul or brow,
>Of all we knew and loved in thee,
     But lives in holier beauty now,
Baptized in immortality!
     Not mine the sad and freezing dream
Of souls that, with their earthly mould,
     Cast off the loves and joys of old,
Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam,
     As pure, as passionless, and cold;
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,
     Of slumbering in oblivion's rest,
Life's myriads blending into one,
     In blank annihilation blest;
Dust-atoms of the infinite,
     Sparks scattered from the central light,
And winning back through mortal pain
     Their old unconsciousness again.
No! I have friends in Spirit Land,
     Not shadows in a shadowy band,

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