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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
Fair 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 flowers 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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