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With awe 1 kneel
Trembling before the footstool of thy state
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.
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
Must have his pauses too from serious thought,
By earthly relaxation-Yet, my friend,