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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
The holy dead!—oh! blest we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar,
Through all our woe!
Blest, that the things they lov'd on earth
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth
By springs untold!
Blest, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet, all for Heaven.
