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, from the field of labor, thou art gone To thy reward,—like him who putteth off His outer garment, at the noon-tide hour, To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run Its course untiring, and thy quicken'd love Where'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go. —Amid thy faithful toil, his summons came, Warning thee home,—and thou didst loose thy heart From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds, And from thy blessed children's warm embrace, With smiles, and songs of praise. Death smote thee sore. And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering nerve, Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken valve, A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom, Were smiles, and songs of praise. And thou didst rise Above the pealing of these Sabbath bells Up to that glorious and unspotted Church, Whose worship is eternal. Would that all Who love our Lord, might with thy welcome look On the last foe, not as a spoiler sent To wreck their treasures, and to blast their joys, But as a friend, who wraps the weary clay With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul To that blest consummation, which its prayers Unceasingly besought, tho' its blest hopes But faintly shadow'd forth,