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Rh

I love my City; and with plan

Aforethought here have welcomed these,

The Awarders great and hard to appease,

Whose realm is all the estate of man.

Justice is theirs: though many an one

May meet their wrath in innocence,

Not knowing why the wound nor whence,

That striketh. Some great evil done

Aforetime, with no payment just,

Casts him to These. Strange wrath and hate

Are round him, and he cries: but Fate,

Unanswering, grindeth him to dust.

No storm-wind—so I speak my prize—

Shall breathe the blight that poisoneth trees;

No burning things that blind the eyes

Of plants, shall pass her boundaries:

The groaning pest shall come not nigh,

Nor fruit upon the branches die.

The flocks shall browse in happy cheer,

And Pan, the Shepherd, guard them true,

With twofold increase, as the year

Repays her seeds in season due;

And deep-hid treasures of the ground

Shall be in God's due order found.