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And when the fallen meet the scorn Of man's disdainful eye, They smile amid his path of thorn With sweet and pitying sigh; And to the brow of guilt and care, The heart by anguish riven, Still point, with angel-finger, where The sinner is forgiven.

They shrink not in our ghastly shroud Their sad abode to take, And keep their vigil o'er the tomb, When all beside forsake; Down in their own dark sleep of death They sink at wintry hour, But in new glory rise to show The soul's immortal dower.

Oh! sharers in our time of joy, And weepers in our woe, We bless ye,—children of the sky, That by the wayside grow; That to the cottage eaves go up, Or wreathe the courtly hall, Still, like the Power who call'd ye forth, Dispensing love to all.