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As the tired voyager on stormy seas Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar; So from the depth of days, when earth yet wore Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore Awhile that holy freshness, and renew Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre, Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise! Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes, Imperial in their visionary fire; Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time, When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!