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 Come back to be buried,—mowed down by the Reaper,

Whose pitiless scythe spares nor manhood nor bloom;

Come back to be buried, O lone, silent sleeper,

Thy kindred await thee,—come, pilgrim, come home.

UTE is his eloquence: that silver tongue

On whose sweet accents crowds, admiring, hung,—

Whose fitting words in heavenly beauty fell

On ear and heart, that owned the witching spell;

Whose graceful cadence tides of feeling woke,

As if on earth some loving angel spoke,—

Now rests in silence, like a harp unstrung.

Its notes, unrivalled, on the breezes flung,

Still breathe in living echoes in the air,

As though the master-spirit lingered there.

Who can do justice to so great a name?

Who speak in worthy words his matchless fame?

In varied learning brilliant and profound;

In taste a model, and in judgment sound;

Above ambition's mean and shuffling arts;

Too great to purchase power at public marts;

In life so pure, in motive so unstained,—

He trod with honor all the heights he gained;

His aims so worthy, and his powers so rare,

If first he stood, the people placed him there.

As stands a shaft on some far-reaching plain,

Rising o'er cottage-roofs and waving grain,