Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain?
No—rather strive thy grov'lling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heav'nly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is ev'ry mortal bliss;
Ev'n Love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sov'reign good ascend.
Rise then, my Soul! with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight
Whose peaceful path and everopen gate
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss;
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,
There yield up all his pow'r e'er to divide you more.