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818.

[Let me well conclude my race]

So Job died, being old and full of days. —xlii. 17.

Let me well conclude my race
And reach the happy shore,
Full of a few mournful days,
O God, I ask no more:
Wisdom is the hoary hair;
Be this in youth or age bestow'd,
Calm the load of life I'll bear,
And glad return to God.