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doth arise From the ashes of the dead, Holy as if the skies Thrice sacred influence shed.

There ethereal hopes are born, Such as sanctify the earth— The noblest wreath e'er worn, Owes to the grave its birth.

For we think upon the dead; The glorious, and the good: And the thought where they have led Stirs the life-blood like a flood;

Where the pure bright moon hath shed The light which bids it rise, Towards the heaven o'er its head; Even such our sympathies.

Is it some hero's grave, Who for his country died? Then honour to the brave, We would be proud to rest beside.

Is it some sage, whose mind Is as a beacon light To save and guide his kind, Amid their mental night?