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 I. 
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 V. 
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 VIII. 
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An all-prolific, all-preserving God!
This were a God indeed.—And such is man,
As here presumed: he rises from his fall.
Think'st thou Omnipotence a naked root,
Each blossom fair of Deity destroy'd?
Nothing is dead; nay, nothing sleeps; each soul
That ever animated human clay
Now wakes, is on the wing; and where, O where,
Will the swarm settle?—When the trumpet's call,
As sounding brass, collects us round Heaven's throne,
Conglobed we bask in everlasting day,
(Paternal splendour!) and adhere for ever.
Had not the soul this outlet to the skies,
In this vast vessel of the universe,
How should we gasp, as in an empty void!
How in the pangs of famish'd Hope expire!