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Hopes, from their source all holy, tho' of earth, All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.

Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours; Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting; Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting;— But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart.

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence! Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping! A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, As, kindling up the silent stone, I see The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee.

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past; Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking!