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Witlrin the churchyard’s sacred bound 
Where rises many a narrow mound, 
A Yew’s thick branches spread ; 
And ’neath its shade the graven stone 
Tells of the bourn so dark and low, 
The mansion of the dead. 
And well its leaves of dingy green 
Are suited to the sombre scene, 
So void of hope and light; 
But on its branches dark we view 
The berries of a scarlet hue, 
Cheering the wearied sight. 
Thus, through the veil that shades the tomb 
Our faith can pierce its solemn gloom, 
And lift the heavy sod; 
Wliat, though our bodies change to dust, 
Still shall the spirits of the just 
Be présent with their God! 
“ When the Archangel’s trump shall sound,” 
And ail the nations gatlier round, 
Whilst earth and sky dissever, 
They, who on Christ their trust hâve stayed 
Shall burst the bonds the grave has laid. 
And rise to live for ever ! 
