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her toiling for the unclad poor With tireless zeal, and bending o'er the sick Through the long watches of the winter night. Why laid she thus their burdens to her heart Forgetful of youth's pleasures? Did some voice Prophetic warn her of that hasting clime Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor To need a garment? Felt she that her step Was near that threshhold where the weary rest? —We may not say what light was in her soul,— For that Blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind Was her close counsellor, and night and day She woo'd its wisdom with a childlike love, 'Till the wild gladness of her nature took A deeper and a holier tint, like one Who girds his Sabbath-mantle meekly on, To tread God's courts. Come! 'tis a holy hour, For Easter-morn is purpling the far hills, And She, our Church, a weeping pilgrim long, Fast by the footsteps of her suffering Lord, Up to his cross, and downward to his tomb, Doth hail his rising. Lo! her feast is spread, And her anointed herald hath announc'd In "Christ's behalf," the invitation blest— Come, thou art bidden, daughter. 'Twas thy prayer To lift thy young heart's banner up this day, Before his altar, and to join the host Who follow him to death. Behold, they kneel With meek obedience to their Master's voice,