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LINES TO THE DEAD.

Far pleasanter to think

That each familiar face, Now gazes on us as of old,

From its mysterious place, With love, that neither death nor change Hath power to sever or estrange.

Oh! who will dare to say,

“This is an idle dream ?" Who that hath given one captive dove

To soar by its own stream, But fancies that its breathings low, Float round them wheresoe'er they go ?

Mother! couldst thou endure

To think thyself forgot
By her, who was thy life, thy air,

The sunbeam of thy lot?
Wouldst thou not live in doubt and fear,
If all thy bright hopes perished here?

And brother! sister! child !

Ye all have loved the light of many a dearly-cherished one,

Now taken from your sight, And can ye deem that when ye meet, Hearts will not hold communion sweet?

Alas! if it be so,

That in the burial-urn
The soul must garner up the love,

That once did in it burn, Better to know not of the worth or true affection on this earth,

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LINES TO THE DEAD.

Friends! I would crave like boon

When laid within death's vaults;
Speak of me often, though it be

Only to tell my faults:
For better that some hearts be taught
Ev'n of my follies than of nought.

Oh! yes, remember me

In gentleness and love:
Let not the chasm be early filled

That tracks my last remove.
But grant me still that little spot;-
Friends ! dearest friends! forget me not

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