Page:Amulet 1836.pdf/5

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'Tis but a pious memory That lingers in this dell, That human tears, and human prayers, Have sanctified the cell.

Save for that memory, all we see Were only some fair scene, Not linked unto our present time, By aught that once hath been.

But now a moral influence Is on that small grey stone; For who e'er watched another's grave And thought not of his own,

And felt that all his trust in life Was leaning on a reed? And who can hear of prayer and faith And not confess their need?

If he who sleeps beneath thought years Of prayer might scarce suffice To reconcile his God, and win A birthright in the skies,

What may we hope, who hurry on   Through life's tumultuous day, And scarcely give one little hour To heaven upon our way!