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Muse! now the servant of soft loves no more

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Rise, then, immortal maid!

Religion, rise!

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Now, Lord, or never, they'll believe on Thee
Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams
O mighty Nothing! unto thee

One eye? a thousand rather, and a thousand more

On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood

O these wakeful wounds of Thine

Pallas saw Venus armed, and straight she cried

Passenger, whoe'er thou art

Rich Lazarus ! richer in those gems, thy tears
Rise heir of fresh Eternity

See here an easy feast that knows no wound
Seen? and yet hated Thee? they did not see
Show me Himself, Himself (bright Sir), O show
Take these, Time's tardy truants, sent by me
Tell me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad
That on her lap she casts her humble eye
The modest front of this small floor

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The smiling Morn had newly waked the Day
The world's Light shines; shine as it will

This reverend shadow cast that setting sun

Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by Art

Thou hast the art on't, Peter, and canst tell -
Thou spak'st the word (Thy word's a law)

Thou trimm'st a Prophet's tomb, and dost bequeath

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Thou water turn'st to wine (fair friend of life)
Thy God was making haste into thy roof
Thy hands are washed, but O, the water's spilt
To see both blended in one flood -

To Thee these first-fruits of My growing death
To thy lover

Two devils at one blow thou hast laid flat

Two mites, two drops (yet all her house and land)
Two went to pray? O rather say

Unde rubor vestris, et non sua purpura lymphis? -
Under thy shadow may I lurk awhile

Welcome, my grief, my joy; how dear's

Well, Peter, dost thou wield thy active sword

What bright soft thing is this

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When you are mistress of the song

What succour can I hope the Muse will send

Whence in your waters, say, that alien glow?

Where art thou, Sol, while thus the blindfold Day

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Whoe'er she be

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Why dost thou wound my wounds, O thou that passest by
Would any one the true cause find

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WILLIAM ANDREWS & CO., PRINTERS, HULL.

CARMEN DEO NOSTRO.

Dressed in the glorious madness of a Muse,

Whose feet can walk the Milky-way, and choose Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm The grave, and hold up an exalted arm To lift me from my lazy urn, to climb Upon the stoopèd shoulders of old Time, And trace eternity.

TO THE MORNING.

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