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MARY NOEL MEIGS. 

Type of a purer clime 
Beyond the flight of time, 
Where the amaranth flowers are rife 
By the placid stream of life, 
For ever gently flowing ; 
Where the beauty of the rose 
In that land of soft repose, 
No blight nor fading knows | 
In immortal fragrance blowing. 
And my prayer is still to see 
In thy blessed ministry, 
A transient gleam of regions that are all divinely fair ; 
A foretaste of the bliss 
In a holier world than this, 


And a place beside the loved ones who are safely gathered 
there. 





