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is a glorious task to seek, Where misery droops the patient head: Where tears are on the widow’s cheek, Where weeps the mourner o’er the dead.

These are the moments when the heart Turns from a world no longer dear; These are the moments to impart The only hope still constant here.

That hope is present in our land, For many a sacred shrine is there; Time-honoured old cathedrals stand ;* Each village has its house of prayer.

O’er all the realm one creed is spread— One name adored—one altar known: If souls there be in doubt, or dread, Alas! the darkness is their own.

The priest whose heart is in his toil Hath here a task of hope and love; He dwells upon his native soil, He has his native sky above.

Not so beneath this foreign sky; Not so upon this burning strand; Where yonder giant temples lie,† The miracles of mortal hand.

Mighty and beautiful, but given To idols of a creed profane; That cast the shade of earth on heaven, By fancies monstrous, vile, and vain.