Issue 14 and Volume 1878 1.

THE DEAD FIREMAN. So, the tired hands are folded, Still the true heart in his breast. And the busy brain is quiet In its long and dreamless rest; And the watchful eyes that ever O’er the loved ones kept their guard, Under nerveless lids are sightless; Gone to heaven for reward. Never more with welcome kisses Shall those swetet lips press our own ; Hushed the sweetest strains of music That our ears have ever known ; Faded out the tender love-light. With its warm and steady glow, That was never dim or waning. Never flickering or low. And the arms, whose sinewy vigor Held us in their strong caress, Cannot stretch themselves to aid usCannot raise themselves to bless. Feet that never seemed aweary With the burdens that they bore. Cannot cross the waiting threshold With their quick step any more. Over him will spring the roses— Over him…

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