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TUB DEAD. 
CINQUEFOIL. 
PotentUla. 
Language — THE DEAD. 
Winds waft the breath of flowers 
To wanderers o’er the wave, 
But bear no message from the bowers 
Beyond the grave. 
Proud science scales the skies — 
From star to star doth roam, 
But reacheth not the shore where lies 
The spirit’s home. 
Impervious shadows hide 
This mystery of Heaven ; 
But where all knowledge is denied, 
To hope is given. 
John Malcomb. 
The dead, the much-loved dead ! 
Who doth not yearn to know 
The secret of their dwelling-place, 
And to what land they go ? 
What heart but asks, with ceaseless tone, 
For some sure knowledge of its own ? 
Ye are not dead to us ; 
But as bright stars unseen, 
We hold that ye are ever near, 
Though death intrude between, 
Like some thin cloud that veils from sight 
The countless spangles of the night. 
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