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 Then, then from his oppressors The Hebrew shall go free, And celebrate in triumph The year of Jubilee; And the sunlit Land that recks not Of tempest nor of fight, Shall fold within its bosom Each happy Israelite: The Home of fadeless splendour, Of flowers that fear no thorn, Where they shall dwell as children, Who here as exiles mourn. Midst power that knows no limit, And wisdom free from bound, The Beatific Vision Shall glad the Saints around: The peace of all the faithful, The calm of all the blest, Inviolate, unvaried, Divinest, sweetest, best. Yes, peace! for war is needless,— Yes, calm! for storm is past,— And goal from finished labour, And anchorage at last. That peace—but who may claim it? The guileless in their way, Who keep the ranks of battle, Who mean the thing they say: