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Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?

When in his own dear home

The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often in his wanderings

The thought of those far off

Hath made his eyes o'erflow
With no unmanly tears;

Delighted he recalls

Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. But ever when he tells of perils past,

And troubles now no more,

His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy
Flows rapid to his heart.

No, William! no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life,

I would not be again

The slave of hope and fear,

I would not learn again

The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives
All cause for full content;

The future,.. it is now the chearful noon, And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze With eyes alive to joy;

When the dark night descends,

I willingly shall close my weary lids
Secure to wake again.

The DEAD FRIEND.

Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul
Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!
Feed not on thoughts so loathly horrible!

The Spirit is not there

That kindled that dead eye,

That throbb'd in that cold heart,

That in that motionless hand

Has met thy friendly grasp.

The Spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable, flesh

That moulders in the grave,

Earth, air and waters ministering particles

Now to the elements

Resolv'd, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved,

The Spirit is not there!

Often together have we talk'd of death;
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubím,

To view the depth of Heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first

Begun the travel of Eternity!
I gaze amid the stars,

And think that thou art there,
Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power

To watch the friends we loved.

Edmund! we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast giver
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure.
Edmund! we did not err !

Our best affections here

They are not like the toys of infancy;
The Soul outgrows them not,

We do not cast them off,

Oh if it could be so

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die?

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour

But in the evening walk

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And tho' Remembrance wake a tear

There will be joy in grief.

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