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O thou! whose eye of smiling love,

Outshines yon eye-lids of the day; Whose bosom no rude tumults move,

Whose form no pencil can pourtray; So bright thine eye, thy form so fair, Beauty herself seems stationed there.

Hail, Charity! thou fairest, best,

Adorn'd with virtue's peerless crown; And wont, array'd in simple vest,

To beam with lustre of thine own: Still let thy breast with rapture glow, But spare a sigh for human woe.

Sweeter thy breath, than gales that play,

Where summer flowers their odours fling; Nor is so soft the voice of May,

With all the choir of tuneful spring, The smile that on thy cheek is seen, Bespeaks a paradise within.

Oh! still thy sacred form display;

Near thee a balm shall sorrow find; Still, like the golden orb of day,

Reign the warm friend of human kind ! And let thine hand to all impart air emblems of an open heart.


o thou, who sit'st a smiling bride

By Valour's arm’d and aweful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd :

Who oft with songs, divine to hear,

Win’st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hid'st in wreaths of Howers his bloodless

sword ! Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:

See Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands,

Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, And decks thy altar still, though pierced with

many a wound !

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