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celestial visitants.
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We gaze. Upon the filmy air,
Their golden harps we may not see.
We wait to hear their low-breathed prayer,
To catch the undying harmony.
It may not be. We list in vain.
We may not hear that glorious strain.

It cannot be. We may not know,
Thus prisoned by our wall of clay,
What faithful hearts around us glow,
In sun or shade, by night or day.
We may not tell what hand is given,
To guide our onward path to heaven.

Yet were the fancy soothing, sweet,
To think, while here our spirits dwell,
That kindred hearts around us beat,
That kindred songs in chorus swell;
That they, whose eye for us grew bright,
Still shed on us their changeless light.

That angel band! perchance our air
Is fragrant with their balmy breath,
Perchance they kneel with us in prayer,—
The truly "faithful unto death;"
And when life's golden chain is riven,
Waft us on angel wings to heaven.

The presence of the holy dead,—
Whose eyes have looked on cloudless day,
O! be its gracious influence shed,
To guide us in the narrow way;
That, when the eternal shore is pressed,
Our souls for aye in heaven may rest.