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From the same.

The flower now blooms, now hangs its head:

So fleets my short-lived day!

O, may my useful fragrance spread

Before I fade away!

What though the throne I then should fill

At the great day, were mine?

The sweetness, which Thy gracious skill

Diffused, its praise were Thine.

Let me not languish, then, and spend

A life dead to Thy praise,

As is the dust to which I tend

By sure though slow decays!

All things are busy round but I

Nor honey with the bees,

Nor scent with flowers, nor husbandry

Have I to water these.

I am no link of Thy great chain,

A cumbrous, fruitless weed:

O, mend my music! Give one strain

Even to my useless reed!

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