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Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose— With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes.My Edmund! where— Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband.Seest thou where the spire Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun To burning gold?—there—o'er yon willow-tuft? Under that native desert monument Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the grey mosses of the wilderness Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth, E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart, A wild, sad forest hymn—a song of tears, Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy Chanting it o'er his solitary task, As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, Perchance unconsciously.