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With awe I kneel Trembling before the footstool of thy state. My God, my Father lo- 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.
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.