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234 And soon the iron hand of death
 * Shall close our dying eyes.

Such is our state—then, tell me, where,
 * Oppressed with care and grief,

The anxious bosom can repair,
 * To seek and find relief?

To mild Religion—heavenly maid!
 * Belongs the power alone,

To dissipate the deepest shade,
 * That shrouds the dark unknown.

She gives the glad inquiring mind
 * This solemn truth to know:

“The soul of man is not confined
 * To this short space below.”

Then cherish well the hopes she gives,
 * To banish all our fears:

“The disembodied spirit lives
 * Beyond the vale of tears.

“Though want, contempt, and scorn, attend
 * The virtuous here below,

Their future bliss shall far transcend
 * Their present pain and woe.