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8 When every thing was calm and fair, Breathing purer than the air That wafted it to heaven?

Have you tried her angel mind, What, oh what there could you find But generous passions strong and kind, And simple purity? Simple, alas!, untaught of ill, She yielded to a lover’s will, He pluck’d the lily from the hill, To wither and to die,

Forgive ye whom our errors fin', She knew not what it was to sin, Her graces all were made to win, But none for to deny. Forgive, for she has been forgiven,— She’s paid the debt she owed to heaven, And does not malice ’gainst the livin' Turn mercy when they die?

FINIS.