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They have no garment for the thought That springs to meet its Sire, No tone to flush the glowing cheek, Or fan Devotion's fire;

Yet upward to the Eternal Throne The spirit's sigh may soar, As sure as if the wing of speech Its hallowed burden bore.

Were language theirs, perchance their tale Of treasured grief or fear, Might cold or unresponsive fall Even on a brother's ear,—

So may they grave upon their minds In youth's unfolding day, 'T is better to commune with Heaven Than with their kindred clay.

The pomp of words may sometimes clog The ethereal spirit's flight, But in the silence of their souls Burns one long Sabbath light,—

If God doth in that temple dwell, Their fancied loss is gain; Ye perfect listeners to His voice! Say, is our pity vain?