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Yet, if like us, Poor erring ones, thou e'er didst leave undone What 'twas the duty of thy life to do, Haste, and repent thee! for the time is short— The Spoiler cometh! Drooping on the stem, Methought it meekly folded its faint leaves For the last, voiceless prayer; while unto me A gush of fragrance was its benison.

At morn I came. No more its bosom glow'd; A heavy sleep hung o'er its leaden eyes,— And dews like funeral tears. Oh, Friend! whose gift Was the dark bulb that veil'd this glorious flower, And unto whom, in gratitude, I turn'd, As its rich charms develop'd—come with me, And let us gather from its wither'd lips Some lingering sigh of wisdom. If we blend True love to God with every kindly deed Unto our fellow man, and steadfast stand At duty's post, still inly bow'd, as those Who feel the time is short—may we not wait For sleep's last angel, full of placid trust, Like this sweet, folded flower?