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Rh Though sometimes mid the husks I fed, And turn'd me from the children's bread, Still bid thine angel-harps resound, The dead doth live, the lost is found.

Reach forth thy hand with pitying care, And guide me through the latest snare; Methinks, even now, in bursting beams The radiance from thy casement streams; No more I shed the pilgrim tear; I hear thy voice, my home is near.