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In Memory of My Old Master.

Ah, place no stone above his quiet rest. 
The earth bears now too heavy on his breast;
[[strikethrough]] Too deep for me when grief would have its right
To tear away and drag him from death's night; [[/strikethrough]]
His love was such a living part of me, 
Thar now 'tis gone, my love forgets to be.
Yon stone shall die, as dies our passing breath,
Both man and marble own the power of death;-
The soul alone lives on from age to age, 
To bear his name on its immortal page-
No marble raise, but these sweet blossoms lay 
To breathe their perfume on the passing day.
And at some twilight hour I'll steal afar
From lower things which peace and beauty mar, 
To watch these tender buds unfold and bloom, 
As doth his spirit from the sullen tomb.
Should dew or rain-drop, -faithless, fail with years-
This rose might flourish with my sacred tears.
No deed but this proclaim above the sod-
He led a mortal nearer unto God.

Paris, Oct. 1883.