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8 Hail! thou most sweet

And gracious one,

Is it not meet

To praise thee when the sun

Pours forth his strong far-reaching heat,

And then at evening when his race is run.

Ah! like a summer sea

At eventide

Thy beauty is to me,

I care for nought beside,

Save only thee;

Let thine anthems be upraised, let no chorus be denied.

Ah! soft and sweet

The maidens' voices raise

The hymn of praise,

As through the winding street

With eager feet

They pass, crowned with roses and with bays.

If in the holy place

Men worship thee;

And pray to see thy face,

So we.

If in the inmost fane

Thy glory stands;

Grant us to touch, being without stain,

Thine hands.

If the priest veils his head

And boweth low;

Make us too, pure, as thou hast said,

As snow.