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IN MEMORY OF ISAAC BROWN. When we are not thinking or looking for death, Only just weary with a shortness of breath; A burning depression, slight pain in the head - By no means expecting so soon to be dead. Friend Isaac seemed healthy, hearty and strong, He had the appearance of living here long; He was careful in diet, habits and dress, With slight indication of a spirit depressed. But seldom complaining but rather seem'd well, When life was declining to none he would tell; But growing still weaker each hour, each day - So quiet he suffered, thus stealeth away. He heard a still voice way down in the night, 'Come home, weary soldier," his soul takes its flight; Lie pierced by death's arrow he showed no alarms - Convulsed by a spasm, he falls in His arms. So calm is he resting, now done with this life, He feels not the grief of his children and wife; Nor father, nor mother who grieve for their son - The two dear old parents seem nearly undone. Awakes in bright glory he'd heard of so long - Enraptur'd by music of Heaven's glad song He falls before Jesus his offering bring - Joins the blessed Spirits in songs they now sing. Our last conversation was cheerful and bright, We'll always remember our visit that night; So kind he received us we sat by his side, But early next morning I learn'd he'd died.
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