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Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect What complicated woes that grave conceals! But, if the little praise, that may await The Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleen Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours To vindicate my humble fame; to say, That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd, "I gave to misery all I had, my tears8 ." And if, where regulated sanctity Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my voice Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was made To him who hears even silence; not in domes Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds, But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct, Even as a map, beneath are spread the fields His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,