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321.

L. M.

Roscoe.

The Pilgrim.

Go, suffering pilgrim of the earth,

Go, conscious of thy heavenly birth,

And, ’midst the storms that round thee rise,

Retrace thy journey to the skies.

What though the wild winds rage around?

Thou wilt not tremble at the sound;

What though the waters o’er thee roll?

They touch not thine immortal soul.

See where, arrayed on either hand,

The direful train of passions stand;

See hatred, envy, bar thy way,

And foes more subtle still than they.

But, robed in innocence and truth,

From all temptation guard thy youth;

And from thy vestment’s sacred bound

Shake the dread fiends that cling around.

Go with pure heart and steadfast eyes,

Strive on till that bright morn shall rise

That gives thee to thy blest abode,

To rest forever with thy God.

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