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8 That lights our morrow, blended now

With mornings of a vernal sphere,

Where down the trail-furrow with his plow

He strides—the Yankee Pioneer:

There ever the world is new to his eyes

That lift from valor-conquered loam

Where rose Sierras ever rise

Sublime beyond the fields of home;

There ever the world is a new world

Of labor towards another day;

Ever the Pilgrim's breath is whirled

To the vast horizons far away;

And ever there, as he flicks the dew

From an oldish tattered book and sings,

His psalm goes up forever new—

Goes up on whirring of April wings:

How beautiful upon the mountains

Are the lambs of the Lord in their cloudy fleece!

How beautiful upon the mountains

Are the feet of Him who bringeth Peace!