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 This triple league, with fierce dislike, At holy festivals would strike: And set the battle in array To drive their peace from earth away.

And storms confused above us lower Of hope and fear and joy and woe; And scarcely ev'n for one half hour Is silence in House below.

That distant City, oh how blest, Whose feast-days know nor pause nor rest! How gladsome is that Palace gate, Bound which nor fear nor sorrow wait!

Nor languor here, nor weary age, Nor fraud, nor dread of hostile rage; But one the joy, and one the song, And one the heart of all the throng!

The Saints whose praise to-day we sing Are standing now before the Throne, And face to nice behold the King In all His Majesty made known.