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C. M.


Forgetting the Things Behind.

Awake, my soul! stretch every nerve,

And press with vigor on;

A heavenly race demands thy zeal,

And an immortal crown.

A cloud of witnesses around

Hold thee in full survey;

Forget the steps already trod,

And onward urge thy way.

’Tis God’s all-animating voice

That calls thee from on high;

’Tis His own hand presents the prize

To thine aspiring eye;—

That prize with peerless glories bright,

Which shall new lustre boast,

When victors’ wreaths and monarchs’ gems

Shall blend in common dust.

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