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Thy fancy soars on wide and buoyant wings; Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour.

This solid earth is press'd beneath our feet, But as a step from which to take our flight; What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be, Serving its end?—Come, noble Sylvius! We've been companions in the broil of battle, Now be we fellow-soldiers in that warfare Which best becomes the brave.

Cordenius Maro, we shall be companions When this wide earth with all its fields of blood Where war hath raged, and all its towers of strength Which have begirded been with iron hosts, Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun Is in his course extinguish'd.

Come, lead me, father, to the holy fount, If I in humble penitence may be From worldly vileness clear'd.

I gladly will, my son. The Spirit of Grace Is dealing with thy spirit: be received, A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship Of all the good and bless'd in earth and heaven!