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Buds of all scents and every changeful hue, The gardens beautiful though fragile gems, Whate'er his creed, or Moslem or Hindoo, The pilgrim twines in radiant diadems. With votive offerings of a grateful breast, Mosque or pagoda by his hands are wreathed, For where the tank invites the fainting guest, He asks not who the precious boon bequeathed.

Oh! blessed work of charity—a tree Planted for love of human-kind—a well— A mosque or mhut's o'ershading canopy, Can make the heart with holy feelings swell. The wide serai within the city's gate, A pool in some green dell beside the plain, Cheer with their pious gifts the desolate, And light the fading beams of hope again.