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Rh Thy toil had been In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants From the sweet garden which she loved to tend, And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom. But ere the young rose, or the willow-tree Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid Low by her side. It was a pleasant place Methought to rest,—earth’s weary labor done, Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs, And in her company, whom thou didst choose From all the world, to travel by thy side, Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd, And in thy faith a sharer. From the haunts Of living men thine image may not fleet Noteless away. They will remember thee, By many a word of witness for the truth, And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere Of those sublimer charities that gird The mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand: And for the hasting of that day of peace Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer. In thine own house and in the church of God There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more Around thine altar, shalt delight to see Thy children, and thy children's children come To take thy patriarch blessing,—and no more Bring duly to yon consecrated courts Thy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest Which earthly Sabbaths dimly shadow forth, And to that ransomed family art risen, Which have no need of prayer.