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Over hopes which lead astray, Wishes yet more wild than they; Over each delusive sin Which the heart takes pleasure in. Red ambition, which doth ask Kingdoms for its glorious task; Avarice, which hath cast its lot 'Mid the gold it uses not; Pleasures, which like opiates steep Higher aims in idle sleep; Vain affections which control All too much the heaven-bound soul: These are vanquish'd 'neath my tread. See the serpent's bruised head:— Angel! take the child I bring. Oh, death! where is now thy sting?