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Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!—thy day is almost done— The charm now hung upon thy look and word Is that which lingers round the setting sun, A power which bright decay hath meekly won Still from revering love. Yet both the sense Of life immortal—progress but begun— Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell, Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touched with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven.