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XXIV

To music bent is my retired mind,

And fain would I some song of pleasure sing;

But in vain joys no comfort now I find;

From heavenly thoughts all true delight doth spring:

Thy power, O GOD, Thy mercies to record,

Will sweeten every note and every word.

All earthly pomp or beauty to express

Is but to carve in snow, on waves to write;

Celestial things, though men conceive them less,

Yet fullest are they in themselves of light:

Such beams they yield as know no means to die;

Such heat they cast as lifts the spirit high.

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