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But thou, whatever change or cloud Deform'd this lower sky, Hadst still a fountain in thy heart Whose streams were never dry; A fountain of perennial hope, That never ceased to flow, And give its sky-fed crystals forth To every child of wo.

Thy frequent visits to my couch, If sickness paled my cheek, And all thy sympathetic love, Which language cannot speak, How strong those recollections rise To wake the grateful tear, For deeds like these more precious grow With every waning year.

I cannot think that bitter grief Would please thy happy soul, Raised as thou art to that bless'd world Where tempests never roll; But may thy dearest and thy best, The children of thy care, Walk steadfast in thy chosen path, And joyful meet thee there.