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Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end;
But there are moments which he calls his own.
And now behold him up the hill ascending,
'Tis past! That hand we grasped, alas, in vain! Nor shall we look upon his face again! But to his closing eyes, for all were there, Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year We shall remember with a fond delight The words so precious which we heard to-night; His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows, Like setting suns or music at the close!
Then was the drama ended. Not till then, So full of chance and change the lives of men, Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure From pain, from grief, and all that we endure, He slept in peace—say rather soared to Heaven, Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given In his right hand to hold the golden key That opes the portals of Eternity. -When by a good man's grave I muse alone, Methinks an Angel sits upon the stone; Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night, Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright; And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear, Says, pointing upward, “ Know, he is not here; He is risen!"
But the day is almost spent ; And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent—though like ours perchance Busy and full of life and circumstance; Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few;
And, as the sun goes round—a sun not ours-