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And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the
pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,

But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and Heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again :
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink!

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak :
Let me not, like this feeble thing,

With brine still dropping from its wing,

Just sparkle in the solar glow

And plunge again to depths below;
But, when I leave the grosser throng

With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,

Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there!

VOL. II.

EPISTLE II.

ΤΟ

MISS M- -E.

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