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PARS SECUNDA.

With awe 1 kneel

Arembling before the footstool of thy state.
My God, my Father!-I will sing to thee
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,

Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades
The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre

And give its wild strings to the desert gale.

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TO THE READER.

THAT union of the soul and body here,

Which heaven has ordered, calls for several treatment

To suit its several parts-Our outward man

Asks cheerful exercise; our inward man

Must have his pauses too from serious thought,

And gathers vigour for his loftier flights
By earthly relaxation-Yet, my friend,

We must not hover here, nor skim the turf
Uninterruptedly, but imp our wings

For rocks aerial and for upper day.

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