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FROM JOB.

1.

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
The face of Immortality unveil'd—
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine--
And there it stood,-all formless—but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:

2.

"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure "Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? "Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! "The moth survives you, and are ye more just? "Things of a day! you wither ere the night, "Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light."

THE END.

Printed by W. Dugdale, Green Street, Leicester Square.

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