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Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert's heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven's transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose?

Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?

And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel voices high communion hold? Would their sweet solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being's harmony, so jarred of old?