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me not, O friend, I pray, With thy well-meaning sympathy; Give me no pity, but a place Where falls the sunlight on my face.

The race is to the swift, I know, The battle to the strong; but Oh! Full recompense there is for each When Heaven itself is in our reach.

The widow's gift of old was small, Yet was it counted more than all; 'Tis what he does, not what he can, That proves the measure of the man.