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solemn knell, whose mournful call Strikes on the heart, I heard. I saw the sable pall Covering the form revered. And lo! his father's race, the ancient, and the blest, Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently they rest, And to the unsaluting tomb, Curtained round with rayless gloom, He entereth in, a wearied guest.

To his bereaved abode, the fireside chair, The holy, household prayer, Affection's watchful zeal, his life that blest, The tuneful lips that soothed his pain, With the dear name of "Father" thrilling through his breast, He cometh not again. Flowers in his home bloom fair, The evening taper sparkles clear, The intellectual banquet waiteth there, Which his heart held so dear. The tenderness and grace That make religion beautiful, still spread Their sainted wings to guard the place— Alluring friendship's frequent tread. Still seeks the stranger's foot that hospitable door, But he, the husband and the sire, returneth never more.