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��AN EPITAPH.
��Art thou a Man of honest mould, With fervent heart, and soul sincere ?
A husband, father, friend ? — Behold Thy Brother slumbers here.
The sun that wakes yon violet's bloom, Once cheer'd his eye, now dark in death,
The wind that wanders o'er this tomb Was once his vital breath.
The roving wind shall pass away. The warming sun forsake the sky ;
Thy Brother, in that dreadful day, Shall live,— and never die.
�� �
