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“TROUBLE NOT YOURSELVES, FOR HIS LIFE IS IN HIM.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“TROUBLE NOT YOURSELVES, FOR HIS LIFE IS IN HIM.”

Where lingers life when breath is o'er,
When light and motion part?
And when the flowing veins no more
Supply the pulseless heart?
Beneath that brow so deadly fair?
That changeless marble cheek?
Those lips of adamant? Say, where
The life of which ye speak?
For one revered and loved I sought,
His hand was strangely cold,
And o'er his form the shroud had wrought
Its labyrinthine fold,

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Kindred and strangers near him prest,
If life's elastic bound,
Still thrilled that hospitable breast,
Where was the greeting sound?
I saw him 'neath that hallowed fane,
Where souls to God draw near,
The dirge invoked with melting strain
His inattentive ear,—
Borne on by mourning friends he came,
They bent beneath the dead,
If life inspired that manly frame
Where was the buoyant tread?
The clay-cold pillow of his rest,
Was curtained dark as night,
Tho' at his fireside, fair and blest,
The evening lamps were bright,
And deep, a voice of wailing rose
From that once happy dome,
If nought the fount of being froze
Why turned he from his home?
But while in bitterness I spake,
Saviour! thy voice divine;
Claim'd for thy cross and sufferings' sake,
The deathless soul as thine:—
Then I believed that he who slept
Survived, tho' Nature failed,
And while an earthly sorrow wept,
The faith of Heaven prevailed.