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Ethereal forms, with awful missions fraught, Or Patriarch-seers, absorbed in sacred thought, Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, And soul returned to animate the dead; Whom the waves owned—and sunk beneath his eye, Awed by one accent of Divinity; To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, As all around the Godhead's presence knew, And robed the Holy One's benignant mien, in beaming mercy, majesty serene.