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At length the hour did come for him, which surely comes for all, From the beggar in his hovel to the monarch in his hall, And when it came to Mr. Simms, he gently pass'd away, As falling into pleasant sleep—Alas, and well-a-day!

And on his face there lingered still a sweet smile and a bland. His Bible lying by his side, and some roses in his hand; His spectacles still marked the place where he had read that day. The words of faith and hope which cheered his spirit on its way.

And many were the weeping friends who followed him next night. In many mourning coaches, found by Solitude and Kyte. And many a circle still laments the good, the kind, the gay, The hospitable Mr. Simms,—Alas! and well-a-day!

Happy the man, whose hair and beard
 * Are glittering stiff with ice and snow,

Whose purple face with sleet is sear'd.
 * His nose also.

Happy the man whose fingers five
 * Seem to have left him altogether.

And feet are scarcely more alive
 * In wintry weather.

And happier he, who heavenly cold.
 * From warmth and sunshine far away,

Lives till his freezing blood grows old
 * At Hudson's Bay.

He in a beauteous basin, wrought
 * Of frozen quicksilver, his feet

May lave in water down to nought
 * Of Fahrenheit.