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have a land of mist and shade, Where spectres roam at will, Dense clouds your mountain cliffs pervade, And damps your vallies chill; But ne'er has midnight's wing of woe Eclipsed our changeless ray; "Come hither," if ye seek to know The bliss of perfect day.

Doubt, like the bohan-upas spreads A blight where'er ye tread, And hope, a wailing mourner, sheds The tear o'er harvests dead; With us, no traitorous foe assails When love her home would make, In Heaven, the welcome never fails, "Come," and that warmth partake.

Time revels 'mid your boasted joys, Death dims your brightest rose, And sin your bower of peace destroys— Where will ye find repose? Ye 're wearied in your pilgrim-race, Sharp thorns your path infest, "Come hither,"—rise to our embrace, And Christ shall give you rest.