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When soft falls the moonlight, and tranquil the hour,
Which holds by a spell the dear scenes of the Past,
How touchingly tender that mystical power
Which throws o’er existence its love to the last.
On the wings of Remembrance, forgetting, forgot
Are the dreams of the Present, as onward we fly,
To place our affections on that hallowed spot
Where the bones of our forefathers mouldering lie.
Deep, pure, in the bosom’s bright innermost shrine,