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Who, helpless, hopeless being, who
Shall strew a flower upon thy grave;
Or who from mute oblivions power
Thy disregarded name shall save?
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Honor and wealth and learning's store
The votive urn remembers long,
And e'en the annals of the poor
Live in the bard's immortal song.
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But a blank stone best stories thee
Whom wealth, nor sense, nor fame would find.
Poorer than aught beside we see,
A human form without a mind --
A casket gemless! yet for thee
Pity shall grave a simple tale,
And reason shall a moral see,
And fancy paint for our avail.
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Yes, it shall paint thy hapless form,
Clad decent in its russet weeds,
Happy in aimless wanderings long,
And pleased thy father's flock to feed.
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With vacant, artless smile thou bore,
Patient, the scoffer's cruel jest.
With viewless gaze could pass it o'er
And turn it pointless from thy breast.
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Though language was forbid to trace
The unformed chaos of thy mind,
And thy rude sound no ear could guess
Save through parental instinct kind;
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Yet unto every human form,
Clings imitation, mystic power!
And thou wert fond and proud to own
The school-time's regulated hour,
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And on the mutilated page
Mutter the mimic lesson's tone,
And, e'er the school-boy's task was said,
Brought ever and anon thy own,
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And many a truant boy would seek
And drag reluctant to his place --
And oft the master's solemn rule
Would mock, with grave and apt grimace.
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And every guileless heart would love
A nature so estranged from wrong --
And every infant would protect
Thee from the passing traveller's tongue.
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Thy primal joy was still to be
Where holy congregations bow, --
Rapt in wild transport when they sung --
And when they prayed would bend thee low.
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O Nature! whereso'er thou art,
Some latent worship still is there --
Blush ye, whose form without a heart,
The idiot's plea can never share.
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Poor guiltless thing! these eighteen years
Parental care had reared alone --
Then, lest thou e'er should want their care,
Heaven took thee spotless to its own.
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For many a watching eye of love
Thy sickness, and thy death did cheer;
Though reason weeps not, she allows
The instinct of a parent's tear.
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Poor guiltless thing! forgot by man,
The hillock's all remains of thee
To merely mortal man it may --
But faith another sight can see.
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For what a burst of mind shall be
When disencumbered from this clod,
Thou, who on earth couldst nothing see
Shall rise to comprehend thy God!
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Oh! could thy spirit teach us now,
Full many a truth the gay might learn --
The value of a blameless life
Full many a sinner might discern!
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Yes! they might learn, who waste their time,
What it must be to know no sin
They who pollute the soul's sweet prime,
What to be spotless, pure, within!
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Whoe'er thou art, go seek her grave,
All ye who sport in folly's way
And as the gale the grass shall wave,
List to a voice that seems to say --
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"'T is not the measure of thy powers
To which th' eternal meed is given --
'T is wasted or improved hours
That forfeit or secure thy heaven."
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