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But ah! to think that breast is cold, Whose sympathetic tone Responded to my joys and woes As though they were its own, To know the prayer that was my guard, My pilot o'er the sea, Must never, in this vale of tears, Be lifted more for me.

There was no frost upon his hair, No anguish on his brow, Those bright brown locks, my pride and care, Methinks I see them now; Methinks that beaming smile I see, In love and patience sweet, O father! must that smile no more My quicken'd footsteps greet?

Yet wrong we not that messenger Who gather'd back the breath, Calling him ruthless spoiler, stern, And fell destroyer, death? His touch was like the angel's   Who comes at close of day To lull the willing flowers asleep Until the morning ray.

And so they laid the righteous man 'Neath the green turf to rest, And blessed were the words of prayer That fell upon his breast;