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WHEN to the common rest that crowns our days,
When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows,
We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years.
And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by,-
Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold— Those pure and happy times-the golden days of old.
Peace to the just man's memory,-let it grow
His calm benevolent features; let the light
The glorious record of his virtues write,
And hold it up to men, and bid them claim
A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame.
But oh, despair not of their fate who rise
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw;
Lo! the same shaft by which the righteous dies,
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law, And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe
Of Him who will avenge them.
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,
Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth
From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth.
Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march,