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Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head, And pass'd away to rest.—Behold her there, Even such as death hath made her!8

Thou art gone A little while before me, oh, my child! Why should the traveller weep to part with those That scarce an hour will reach their promised land Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, And spread his couch beside them?

Must it be Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair Had its bright place amongst us?—Is this all, Left for the years to come?—We will not stay! Earth's chain each hour grows weaker.

And thou 'rt laid To slumber in the shadow, blessed child! Of a yet stainless altar, and beside A sainted warrior's tomb!—Oh, fitting place For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul