For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd;

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies;
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries;

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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