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250 His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
 * Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

And sure the Eternal Master found
 * His single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
 * Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
 * Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,
 * No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
 * And freed his soul the nearest way.