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Thou art as a herald of hope from above:— Weep, mourner, no more o'er thy grief and thy love! Still thy heart in its beating; be glad of such rest, Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best. Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie; Weep no more that the loved and the loving must die; Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet: But gaze on yon starry world—there ye shall meet.

O heart of mine! is there not One dwelling there To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer? For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day, As a link in the fetters that keep me away? When I think of the glad and the beautiful home, Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come: That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest,