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PARS SECUNDA.

With awe 1 kneel

Trembling 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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ἁπάντων τῶν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς τέλος ἐστιν

Ὁ ΘΕΟΣ.

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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