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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XX.
             
      The lesser griefs that may be said,
          That breathe a thousand tender vows,
          Are but as servants in a house
      Where lies the master newly dead;

      Who speak their feeling as it is,
          And weep the fulness from the mind:
          ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find
      Another service such as this.’

      My lighter moods are like to these,
          That out of words a comfort win;
          But there are other griefs within,
      And tears that at their fountain freeze;

      For by the hearth the children sit
          Cold in that atmosphere of Death,
          And scarce endure to draw the breath,
      Or like to noiseless phantoms flit:

      But open converse is there none,
          So much the vital spirits sink
          To see the vacant chair, and think,
      ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’
       


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