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Thy voice should ever have a dirge-like swell; 
Thy smile e’er gently mind us of decay: 
And if a bird yet sing, oh ! be its lay 
Such as might seem of faded flowers the knell ! 
Now would I seek yon grove of ash, where chief 
Thy withering spells seem cast; and may the sound 
Of the dead foliage, as it falls around, 
Awake to thoughtfulness, if not to grief. 
Not yet “ into the sear, the yellow leaf 
My May of life has fall’nyet still to me 
Nor sound nor sight should e’er unwelcome be, 
Which warns me life uncertain is, and brief. 
Oh ! Nature, many a lesson could’st thou give 
Would man but list thy monitory voice; 
Thou bid’st him pause, and tremblingly rejoice 
That he but “ lives to die, and dies to live.” 
May I with reverence meet thy lore receive, 
Eloquent teacher ! >— yet what fears were mine, 
What dark misgivings, did not faith perceive 
“ A still, small voice” blend other truths with thine, 
And, where thou fail’st, take up the wondrous theme, 
Till grace and glory on my musings beam ! 
