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The holy dead!—oh! blest we are, That we may call them so, And to their image look afar, Through all our woe!

Blest, that the things they lov'd on earth As relics we may hold, That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth By springs untold!

Blest, that a deep and chastening power Thus o'er our souls is given, If but to bird, or song, or flower, Yet, all for Heaven.