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Doom'd as we are our native dust

To wet with many a bitter shower,

It ill befits us to disdain

The altar, to deride the fane,

Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust

To win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,

Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze:

Hail to the firm unmoving Cross,

Aloft, where pines their branches toss!

And to the chapel far withdrawn,

That lurks by lonely ways!

Where'er we roam,--along the brink

Of Rhine,--or by the sweeping Po;

Through Alpine vale, or champain wide,

Whate'er we look on, at our side

Be Charity!--to bid us think,

And feel, if we would know.

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