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What shall I say to you? my heart would speak What my voice cannot. O! and here comes one Who mocks all power of words.

Yes, gather round him, kindly souls tho' rude, In the true artless sympathy of nature; For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd In awful power, but spar'd the thunderbolt.— When urg'd by strong temptation to the brink Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind With scarce a step between; all pitying heaven, Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love, Oftimes, in dark and awful visitation, Doth interpose, and leads the wand'rer back To the straight path, to be forever after A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller, Strong in humility, who swerves no more. (Exuent.