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OFT may the spirits of the dead descend | |
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend; | |
To hover round his evening-walk unseen, | |
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; | |
To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, | 5 |
And heaven and nature opened to their view! | |
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees | |
A smiling circle emulous to please; | |
There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, | |
And bless the scene they loved in life so well! | 10 |
Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share | |
From Reasons dawn each pleasure and each care; | |
With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know | |
The humble walks of happiness below; | |
If thy blest nature now unites above | 15 |
An angels pity with a brothers love, | |
Still oer my life preserve thy mild controul, | |
Correct my views, and elevate my soul; | |
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, | |
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned; | 20 |
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, | |
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, | |
To meet the changes Time and Chance present | |
With modest dignity and calm content. | |
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, | 25 |
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed, | |
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, | |
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed, | |
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, | |
Its hope in death, its triumph oer the grave? | 30 |
The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth, | |
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth! | |
Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine | |
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! | |
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, | 35 |
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! | |
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; | |
The only pleasures we can call our own. | |
Lighter than air, Hopes summer-visions die, | |
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; | 40 |
If but a beam of sober Reason play, | |
Lo, Fancys fairy frost-work melts away! | |
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, | |
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? | |
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, | 45 |
Pour round her path a stream of living light, | |
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest | |
Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are blest! | |
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