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Methought her warning voice, who long 'Neath the cold sods had slept, Spake forth from every rushing wave That on resistless swept;

Methought a teardrop, like her own, Fell from the gathering cloud, That round the slowly-rising moon Had wreath'd its silver shroud;

Methought the searching eye of God Flamed in his secret soul, And down the proud man bow'd, with tears, To own its strong control:

The Saviour's lowly yoke he took, His flinty heart was riven, And so the seed his mother sow'd   Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven.