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I came to the place where the lone pilgrim lay,

And pensively stood by his tomb.

When in a low whisper I heard something say,

“How sweetly he sleeps here alone.”

The tempest may howl, and the loud thunders roar,

And gathering storms may arise.

Yet calm are his feelings, at rest is his soul,

The tears are all wiped from his eyes.

He wandered an exile and stranger from home,

No kindred or relative nigh;

He met the contagion and sank to his tomb,

His soul flew to mansions on high.