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, he communeth at the gate of heaven. Call him not back. Detain him not with tears, Ye loving ones, who from your being's dawn, Have in your reverence shrined him, next to God. He drinks the cup alone, most tender wife, He, who so long hath held no earthly draught Of woe, or happiness, unshared by thee. He drinks the cup alone. Thou may'st not drain Its bitter dregs for him, nor fearless place Thy soul in his soul's stead, as fain thou would'st If 'twere thy Father s will. Is this that form, So late with manhood's majesty replete? Is this that lofty brow from whence looked forth The ruling mind. How, like the flower of grass, Is all we call perfection! How doth man Fall from his glory, if one baleful breath But stir his nerves, or check the refluent tide That, visits every vein, or sweep those cells Unkindly, where his lucid thoughts are born! "The door is opened." Hark, it is the last, Last sound, from that pale lip. What scans the eye That through the shroud of dim disease doth dart Such brightening ray? Do hovering angels show The untold riches of that realm, which needs