To call each fondly-cherished grace,
And fold them in the heart’s embrace.
No bliss ’mid worldly crowds is bred,
Like musing on the sainted dead.
We grieve to see expired the race
They ran, intent on works of love;
But sweet to think no mixture base,
With which their better nature strove,
Shall rear their virtuous deeds above.
Sin o’er their soul has lost its hold,