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it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Of sainted genius called too soon away, Of light, from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect day; How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, oh, Thou of many gifts! for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here among us heard? And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word, Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd, Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd.