Obrazy na stronie
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TO THE RAINBOW.
TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws.

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told, why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's cov'nant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme!
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast,

O'er mountain, tower, and town;
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

THE DEAD SEA.

T. CAMPBELL.

THE rind blows chill across those gloomy waves;
OL how unlike the green and dancing main !
The urge is foul as if it rolled o'er graves:

Struge here lie the cities of the plain.
Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now,
Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle;
On pomp and spectacle beamed morning's glow,
On ponup and festival the twilight fell.

Lovely and splendid all-but Sodom's soul

Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury; Long warned, long spared, till her whole heart was foul, And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh. And still she mocked, and danced, and taunting, spoke Her sportive blasphenies against the Throne: It came !-the thunder on her slumber broke

God spake the word wath !-Her dream was done

Yet, in her final night, amid her stood

Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven Pleaded with man, but she was quite imbued,

Her last hour waned-she scorned to be forgiven. 'Twas done! down poured at once the sulphurous showe Down stooped, in flame, the heaven's red canopy. Oh! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour!

'Twas vain, nor help of God or man was nigh. They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin; Still stooped the cloud, still burst the thicker l aze; The earthquake heaved!-then sank the hideous diniYon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays. REV. G. CROIY

PARTED FRIENDS. PARTED friends may meet again, When the storms of life are past; And the spirit freed from pain, Basks in friendship that will last. Worldly cares may sever wide— Distant far their path may be ; But, the bond by Death untied,

They shall once again be free. Death-the end of care and pain

Death, the wretch's happiness meed, Death can break the strongest chain, Death is liberty indeed.

Parted friends again may meet,

From the toils of nature free; Crowned with mercy, Oh! how sweet Will eternal friendship be!

THE STARS.

C. W. THOMSON.

OH 'tis lovely to watch ye at twilight rise, When the last gleam fades in the distant skies, When the silver chime of the minster-bell, And the warbling fount in the woodland dell, And the viewless sounds in the upper air, Proclaim the hour of prayer!

Then ye shine in beauty above the sea, Bright wanderers o'er the blue sky free! Catching the tone of each sighing breeze, And the whispering sound of the forest-trees, Or the far-off voice, through the quiet dim Of some hamlet's hymn!

And the midnight, too, all still and lone!
Ye guard in beauty, from many a throne!
In your silver silence throughout the hour,
Watching the rest of each folded flower,
Gladdening with vision's each infant's sleep,
Through the night hour deep!

Yes, ye look over Nature's hushed repose,
By the forest still where the streamlet flows,
By the breezeless hush of many a plain,
And the pearly flow of the silver main,
Or sweetly far o'er some chapel shrine
Cf the olden time!

Thus in shadeless glory ye onward roll,
Bright realms of beauty, from pole to pole!
'Mid the vaulted space where your bright paths
In the hidden depths of the midnight sky,
To some far-off land-to some distant home,
'Neath the ocean's foam !

But lo! the far voice of the waking sea,
And the dim dew rising o'er lawn and lea,
And the first faint tinge of the early day,
Shining afar o'er the ocean's spray!
Oh, ye that have been as a power and a spell,
Through the dim midnight!-Farewell!

F. MULLE

1 WOULD not be

THE ASPEN LEAF.

A leaf on yonder aspen tree;

In every fickle breeze to play,
Wildly, weakly, idly, gay,

So feebly framed, so lightly hung,

By the wing of an insect stirred and swung;
Thrilling ev'n to a redbreast's note,
Drooping if only a light mist float,

Brightened and dimmed like a varying glass,
As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass :—
I would not be

A leaf on yonder aspen tree.

It is not because the autumn sere
Would change my merry guise and cheer-
That soon, full soon, nor leaf, nor stem,
Sunlight would gladden, or dew-drop gem-
That I, with my fellows, must fall to the earth,
Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth,
Or else on the bough where all had grown,
Must linger on, and linger alone;
Might life be an endless summer's day,
And I be for ever green and gay,

I would not be, I would not be,
A leaf on yonder aspen tree!

Proudly spoken, heart of mine,

Yet weakness and change perchance are thine,
More, and darker, and sadder, to see,
Than befall the leaves of yonder tree!
What if they flutter-their life is a dance;

Or toy with the sunbeam-they live in his glance;
To bird, breeze, and insect, rustle and thrill,
Never the same, never mute, never still-
Emblems of all that is fickle and gay,

But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay-
Chide them not-heed them not-spirit, away!
In to thyself, to thine own hidden shrine,

What there dost thou worship? what deem'st thou divine?
Thy hopes-are they steadfast, and holy, and high?
Are they built on a rock? are they raised to the sky?
Thy deep, secret yearnings-oh! whither point they,
To the triumphs of earth, to the toys of a day?
Thy friendships and feelings-doth impulse prevail,
To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the sail?
Thy life's ruling passion-thy being's first aim-
What are they? and yield they contentment, or shame?
Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state,

If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate,
It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die,
And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh;
But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw
Eternal repose on thy joy, or thy wo;

Thou must live-live for ever-in glory or gloom,
Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb.
Look to thyself, then, ere past is Hope's reign,
And looking and longing alike are in vain;
Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been or to be,
But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree.

THE MANIAC.

MISS JEWSBURY.

To see the human mind o'erturned,
Its loftiest heights in ruin laid,

And reason's lamp, which brightly burned,
Obscured, or quenched in phrensy's shade:

A sight like this may well awake
Our grief, our fear-for nature's sake.

It is a painful, humbling thought-
To know the empire of the mind,
With wit endowed, with science fraught,
Is fleeting as the passing wind;
And that the richest boon of heaven
To man-is rather lent than given.
To-day he sits on reason's throne,

And bids his subject powers obey:
Thought, memory, will-all seem his own,
Come at his bidding, list his sway;
To-morrow-from dominion hurled-
Madness pervades the mental world!

Yet think not, though forlorn and drear
The maniac's doom-his lot the worst:
There is a suffering more severe

Than these sad records have rehearsed
'Tis his, whose virtue struggles still
In hopeless conflict with his will.
There are before whose mental eye
Truth has her chastest charms displayed;
But gaudier phantoms flut'ring by,

The erring mind have still betrayed; Till gathering clouds in awful night, Have quenched each beam of heavenly light.

There are-whose mental ear has heard

The "the still small voice!" yet prone to wrong, Have proudly, foolishly preferred

The sophist's creed, the syren's song;
And staked, upon a desperate throw,
Their hopes above-their peace below.
There are, in short, whose days present
One constant scene of painful strife;
Who hourly for themselves invent

Fresh conflicts-till this dream of lite
Has made their throbbing bosoms ache,
And yet, alas! they fear to wake.
With theirs compared, the maniac's doom,
Though abject, must be counted blest;
His mind, though often veiled in gloom,

At times may know a vacant rest :
Not so, while thought and conscience prey
Upon the heart which slights their sway.
O Thou! whose cause they both espouse,
In mercy bid such conflict cease;
Strengthen the wakening sinner's vows,
And grant him penitence and peace;
Or else, in pity, o'er the soul

The dark'ning clouds of madness roll.

THE CRIMINAL.

BARTON

THE dungeon walls were dark and high,
The narrow pavement bare,
No sunlight of the blessed sky
Might ever enter there:

In all the melancholy weeks

The prisoner chained had lain,

No breath of heaven had kissed his cheeks,
Or cooled his fevered brain.

For him-awake-asleep-there came
No vision of sweet rest;
Undying memory, like a flame,
Burned in his guilty breast:
Dark as the weary gloom around
His soul was dark within;
For, oh! he lived but in the sound
Of shamelessness and sin.

His mother heard his final doom,

With shrieks that thrilled through allOh! could naught save him from the tomb? Must he-must he! thus fall?

The arrow pierced her aged head,
With cold and deadly pain;

She tottered senseless to her bed,
And never rose again!

His father spoke not-but the pale
And quivering lip confessed,
The agonies which did assail
His miserable breast;

His eyes were closed, as if the light
Was loathsome to behold;

But tears burst from the lids to sight-
They could not be controlled!

Fast flew the fatal hours-he trod

Life's very brink, alone;
Yet had no hope-no fear-no God!
His heart was turned to stone.

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VERSES WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERING FROM
A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.

THOUGH taught by woes to mortals seldom known,
The humbling truth, that "man is not his own,"
That, till we live to Him for us who died,
All love is selfish, and a.. knowledge pride,
All happiness a momentary gleam,

All hope a meteor, and all peace a dream:
Though taught this truth by discipline severe,
(Such as health could not, life could scarcely bear),
Strong are the ties which still my mind entwine,
And counteract the work of love divine.
The world, the world, its glittering baits prepares,
Its friendship offers, and obtrudes its cares;
Still would intemperate fancy wildly stray,
Spite of the secret check, the secret ray;
Weak to withstand, and yet afraid to yield,
I neither keep, nor wholly quit the field.

Father of mercies, "till the day-spring rise,"
And thy salvation glad my longing eyes;
Till doubt and fear like "morning shadows flee,"
And all my griefs are lost in love of thee;
While through this cheerless wild I faintly strive,
Hope sore depressed, and Faith but just alive,
Teach me to dread all guidance but thy own,
And patient tread "in paths I have not known :"
Forgive my murmurings; let thy quickening power
Support iny spirit in the gloomy hour;
And, when the host of household foes appal,
"Turn, thou beloved," at my feeble call.
Come "with the swiftness of the mountain roe,"
And strength, proportioned to my wants, bestow;
Teach me those wants more deeply still to feel,
And deeply feeling, suppliant when to kneel;
Oh! in my soul that ardent thirst renew,
Which naught can satiate but celestial dew;
Drive thou from thence unprofitable care,
Yea, all that mars it for a house of prayer;
Dislodge alike the abject and the proud,
Passion's low mist, and notion's airy cloud;
Whate'er thy power has shaken, shake again,
Till naught but things immovable remain.

Thus, gracious Father, break each false repose,
And unrelenting, "rule amidst thy foes,"
Till, every low propensity exiled,
"My soul is even as a weaned child,"
From mean self-love, or gross, or specious, free,
And all my treasures, all my springs in thee.

CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

WHEN Jordan hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion's hill;

MARRIOT.

When Bethlehem's shepherds through the night,
Watched o'er their flocks by starry light;

Hark! from the midnight hills around,
A voice of more than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujah's stole,
Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul.

Then swift to every startled eye,
New streams of glory light the sky;
Heaven bursts her azure gates to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.

On wheels of light, on wings of flame,

The glorious hosts of Zion came;
High heaven with songs of triumph rung,
While thus they struck their harps and sung;

O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,

The long expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,

The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

See, Mercy, from her golden urn,

Pours a rich stream to them that mourn;
Behold she binds with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of despair,

He comes to cheer the trembling heart,
Bids Satan and his host depart;
Again the day-star gilds the gloom,
Again the bowers of Eden bloom;

O Zion! lift thy raptured eye,
The long expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.
CAMPBELL

CHRISTIAN TRIUMPHS.

THOUGH laurel crowns and victor wreaths
Be for the sons of triumph twined;
Though song her sweetest music breathes
For the destroyers of our kind;
Oh let them weep, for time shall sweep
Their perishable pomp away;
Oh let them mourn, for death shall turn
The proudest conqueror into clay

But here's a deathless coronet,

Wrought for the holy and the wise, And here is music sweeter yet,

Which never faints and never dies! The good may see earth's glory flee, Heaven's ever living glory theirs ; Their path is peace and pleasantness, And they are joy's immortal heirs. JOHN BOWRING

RECOLLECTION.

HAIL, gentle Echo, Music's softer daughter,
Reclining on thy deep romantic seat;
From cliff, or thick-set wood, or rocky water,
Springing to meet us on ethereal feet!

Yet in the soul doth softer Echo linger,
It seems the spirit of departed song;
When fouch'd again by MEMORY's airy finger,
The harp note wanders lovelily along.
Such is the train of holy thought returning,
When sacred seasons long have passed away,
By memory rekindled, glowing, burning-
Indeed with fainter, but as sweet a ray.

So the lost sunbeam, in its soft reflection,
Beamed from the bosom of the Queen of night,
Sheds over nature's face a recollection,
More fair, more tender, though, indeed, less bright.
Thus will the touch of memory awaken,

And bid the sabbath shine along the week,
And bring again sweet moments long forsaken,
And altars which the spirit fain would seek-

Of holy converse, and of high communion,
Of praise celestial, and of ardent prayer,
Of sacred mystery, and the blessed union

Of hearts which glowed in our possession there.

How doubly blest? first in the full possessing,
And after in reflected life and light!
The past-the present-plenitude of blessing,
Which not eternity itself will blight!
JAMES EDMESTOFE

INFANT'S PRAYER.

O THOU! Who mak'st the sun to rise,
Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes,

And guide me through this world of care:
The wandering atom thou canst see.
The falling sparrow's marked by thee,
Then, turning Mercy's ear to me,
Listen! listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save
Man's nature from a second grave;

To share in whose redeeming care,
Want's lowliest child is not too mean,
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,

Oh! Thou wilt deign from heaven to lean, And listen, listen,

Listen to an infant's prayer

O Thou! who wilt from mona part,
To dwell within the contrite herit;

And build thyself a temple here;
O'er all my dull affections move,
Fill all my soul with heavenly love,
And, kindly stooping from above,
Listen! listen,

Listen to an infant's prayer!

THE PILGRIMS OF EMMAU.

It happened on a solemn eventide,
Soon after He who was our surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all their sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as they went,
In musings worthy of the great event:

They spake of him they loved, of him whose life
Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife,
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,
The further traced, enriched them still the more;
They thought him, and they justly thought him, one
Sent to do more than he appeared t' have done :
T'exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wondered he should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A stranger joined them, courteous as a friend,
And asked them, with a kind, engaging air,
What their affliction was, and begged a share.
Informed, he gathered up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explained, illustrated, and searched so well
The tender theme, on which they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, "The night," they said, "is near,
We need not now be parted-sojourn here."
The new acquaintance soon became a guest,
And made so welcome, at their simple feast
He blessed the bread, but vanished at the word,
And left them both exclaiming-" "Twas the Lord!
Did not our hearts feel all he deigned to say-
Did they not burn within us by the way ?"

THE HOUR OF PRAYER. BLEST hour! when mortal man retires To hold communion with his God, To send to heaven his warm desires, And listen to his sacred word.

Blest hour! when earthly cares resign Their empire o'er his anxious breast; While all around, the calm divine

Proclaims the holy day of rest.

COWPER.

Blest hour! when God himself draws nigh, Well pleased his people's voice to hear; To list the penitential sigh,

And wipe away the mourner's tear.

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PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed;

The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,-
The falling of a tear,-

The upward glancing of an eye
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath—
The Christian's native air,
His watch-word at the gates of death,
He enters Heaven with prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from his ways,
While angels on their wings rejoice,
And say," Behold, he prays!"
The saints in prayer appear as one
In word, and deed, and mind,
When with the Father, Spirit, Son,
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone,
The Holy Spirit pleads,
And Jesus on the eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.

O thou, by whom we come to God!
The Life the Truth-the Way!
The path of prayer thyself has trod,
Lord, teach us how to pray!

THE GRAVE.

J. MONTGOMERY,

O GRAVE, thou hast thy victory!
Beauty and Strength are laid with thee;
Thus is it in each distant clime;
Thus was it in the ancient time.

The prophets of all former days;
All who win honor, love and praise,
The eloquent tongue, the arm of might,
The bard whose soul is love and light,
The patriot king, the wise, the brave,
Are ever mouldering in the grave.

O Grave, thou hast thy victory!
The desert sands are sown by thee;
And years must pass in misery steeped,
Ere that dread harvest will be reaped;
The desert air is parched and dry,
And thousands have lain down to die;
The traveller's steps grow slow and faint,
His kind hear not his last complaint,
See not his last convulsive start,
As death is busy at his heart;
His grave is in the burning sand,
His memory in his native land.

Of old thou hadst thy victory!
And Cheops nobly built for thee;
Raising thy trophy in the pile,
That casts its shadow many a mile.
Thine was the gain when rose on high
The Egyptian's mother's midnight cry;
And when God's angel with the blast
Of death among the Assyrians passed;
When the unnumbered Persians lay
On Salamis at break of day;
And when mid revelry, came down
Darkness on the Italian town,-
O Grave, thou hadst thy victory!

Thine are the isles, and thine the sea
The hoary hills are all thine own,
With the gray cairn and cromlech-stone,
And groves of oak and woods of pine,
And the dim ocean's caves are thine.
Thy ancient slumbers lie beneath
The untilled verdure of the heath:
And in the field thy ardent race
Outstrips the hunter in the chase;
The mariner finds no unknown bay,
But there thou lurkest for thy prey.

O Grave, what wo is wrought by thee!
What clouded years of misery!
What loving hearts hast thou bereft;
What joyless, hopeless mourners left;
Young innocence without a guide,
Beset with snares on every side;
Age, with white hairs and chilled blood,
Pining in friendless solitude!

Yet, than earth's mightiest mightier,
O Grave thou hast thy vanquisher!
Long in thy night was man forlorn,
Long didst thou laugh his hope to scorn:
Vainly Philosophy might dream,
Her light was but the meteor gleam,
Till rose the Conqueror of Death,-
The humble Man of Nazareth:
He stood between us and despair:
He bore, and gave us strength to bear;
The mysteries of the grave unsealed,
Our glorious destiny revealed;
Nor sage nor bard may comprehend
The heaven of rest to which we tend.
Our home is not this mortal clime;
Our life hath not its bounds in time;
And death is but the cloud that lies
Between our souls and paradise.

O Grave! well might each thoughtful race Give thee the high and holy place: Mountains and groves were meet for thee, Thou portal of eternity!

MARY HOWITT.

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

How fair and how lovely it is to behold
The sun in its splendor, approaching the west,
Its race is near run, and refulgent as gold,
It glides through the ether as hastening to rest.

It sinks, but in sinking 'tis only to rise,

Its splendor and glory afresh to display;
It sets, but in other and far distant skies,
It rises and reigns in the brightness of day.

Yet far more resplendent than this is the scene
Of the good man approaching the confines of time,
All loving, all peaceful, all calm and serene,
He passes away with a brightness sublime.

He diea, but no pencil can ever display,

The splendor and glory that burst on his sight, As guided by angels he speeds on his way,

Through the portals of praise to the temple of light. J. HARRIS.

THE SABBATH.

WHAT spell has o'er the populous city past?
The wonted current of its life is stayed;
Its sports, its gainful schemes are earthward cast,
As though their vileness were at once displayed;
The roar of trade has ceased, and on the air
Come holy songs and solemn sounds of prayer.
Far spreads the charm; from every hamlet spire
A note of rest, and heavenward thought is pealed:
By his calm hearth reclines the peasant sire;
The toil-worn steed basks in the breezy field.
Within, without, through farm and cottage blest,
'Tis one bright day of gladness and of rest.
Down from the mountain dwellings, while the dew
Shines on the heath-bells, and the fern is bending
In the fresh breeze, in festive garbs I view

Childhood, and age, and buoyant youth descending. God! who hast piled thy wonders, round their home, 'Tis in their love they to thy temple come.

A stately ship speeds o'er the mighty main—
Oh! many a league from our own happy land:
Yet from its heart ascends the choral strain;
For there its little isolated band,

Amid the ocean desert's awful roar

Praise Him whose love links shore to distant shore.
O'er palmy woods where summer radiance falls,
In the glad islands of the Indian main,
What thronging crowds the missionary calls

To raise to heaven the Christian's glorious strain.
Lo! where engirt by children of the sun,
Stands the white man, and counts his victories won.
In the fierce deserts of a distant zone,

'Mid savage nations, terrible and stern, A lonely atom, severed from his own,

The traveller wends, death or renown to earn. Parched, fasting, wearied, verging to despair, He kneels, he prays-hope kindles in his prayer. O'er the wide world, blest day, thine influence flies; Rest o'er the sufferer spreads her balmy wings; Love wakes, joy dawns, praise fills the listening skies; The expanding heart from earth's enchantment spring Heaven, for one day, withdraws its ancient ban, Unbars its gates, and dwells once more with man. WILLIAM HOWITT.

SPIRITUAL WORSHIP.

THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been, On the day of its first dedication,

When the cherubim's wings, widely waving were seen
On high, o'er the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled,
To minister, standing before Thee,
Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled,
And thy glory made Israel adore Thee:

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then;
Yet the worship thy gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.
And by whom was that ritual for ever repealed?
But by Him unto whom it was given
To enter the Oracle, where is revealed,

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven.

Who, having once entered, hath shown us the way
O Lord, how to worship before thee;
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore thee!
This, this is the worship the Savior made known,
When she of Samaria found him,

By the patriarch's well, sitting weary, alone,
With the stillness of noontide around him.

How sublime, yet how simple the homage he taught
To her, who inquired by that fountain,
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought!
Or adored on Samaria's mountain ?

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