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Lord, I have laid my heart upon Thy altar, But can not get the wood to burn; It hardly flares ere it begins to falter, And to the dark return. Old sap, or night-fallen dew, has damped the fuel; In vain my breath would flame provoke; Yet see at every poor attempt's renewal To Thee ascends the smoke.
I have elsewhere remarked that the conceit in the following stanza resembles a thought in some verses of Angerianus: And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew, Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you. At quum per niveam cervicem influxerit humor Dicite non roris sed pluvia haec lacrimae.
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