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REFLECTIONS. 



Whate'er has beauty, worth, or power, 



Or grace, or lustre, is a flower ; 



Wit is a flower ; and bards prepare 



The flowers of fancy for the Fair ; 



While beauty's flowery fetters bind 



In sweet captivity the mind. 



Deep in the bosom dwells a flower, 



Nor time shall taint, nor death devour ; 



A flower that no rude season fears, 



And virtue is the fruit it bears ; 



Which join'd to patience, peace, and love, 



Will smooth the path to realms above ; 



