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priestess of a fane discredited,

Whose votaries to-day are few or none;

Goddess austere, whose touch the vulgar shun,

As they would shrink from a Procrustes bed,

Hieing to temples where the feast is spread,

And life laughs loudly, and the smooth wines run;

Wise mother!—least desired 'neath the sun,

At thy chill breasts the noblest have been fed.

Great are thy counsels for the brave and strong;

Yet do we fear thy brooding mystery,

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