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54 To bles my longing ight; Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace, Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, And chate ubdued delight.

No more by varying paions beat, O gentle guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell; Where in ome pure and equal ky Beneath thy oft indulgent eye The modet virtues dwell.

Simplicity in attic vet, And Innocence with candid breat, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to ditant years, Fair opening thro' this vale of tears A vita to the ky. Their