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Rh Knowing our frame, remembers man is dut. His pirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the firt wih to better hopes inclin'd; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the moaking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the oftet cry, His grace decends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a ilent tear, And ighs are incene from a heart incere. Such are the vows, the acrifice I give; Accept the vow, and bid the uppliant live: From each terretrial bondage et me free; Still every wih that centers not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain diquiets ceae, And point my path to everlating peace.

If the oft hand of winning pleaure leads By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,