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IN MEMORY
ELIZA SPROAT TURNER
How should we think of her as dead
Whose words to many are as daily bread?
How should we deem her gone
Whose help is not, and cannot be, withdrawn?
We do not mourn the orb as set
Whose shining beams are all about us yet!
Ah, no! They live indeed—the dead
By whose example we are upward led;
Nor was her service vain
Who gave herself—again and yet again—
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