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Rh Yet in no ueles gloom he wore her days; She lov'd the work, and only hun'd the praie. Her pious hand the poor, the mourner blet; Her image liv'd in every kindred breat. approv'd, And prais'd and noble  lov'd; Seraphic, and tuneful  were thine, And virtue's noblet champions fill'd the line. Blet in thy friendhips! in thy death too blet! Receiv'd without a pang to endles ret. Heaven call'd the aint matur'd by length of days, And her pure pirit was exhal'd in praie. Bright pattern of thy ex, be thou my Mue; Thy gentle weetnes thro' my oul diffue: Let me thy palm, tho' not thy laurel hare, And copy thee in charity and prayer. Tho' for the bard my lines are far too faint, Yet in my life let me trancribe the aint. To