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THE BEREAVED.
O may He grant me grace divine, while on these shores of time,
To learn the dialect they speak in yon celestial clime.
Beside his glorious throne they rest, on seraph-harps they play;
Why should I wish them back again in these cold tents of clay?
A stricken, not a mournful man, I sigh, but not repine,
For my heart is in that land of love, with those I hope to join.
