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Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine, Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine Through some wild pass of rocky Appennine, From the bright-pinioned nature which hath soar'd Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explor'd, And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?

And now an alien!—Wherefore must this be? From those pure urns of radiance, welling free? Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!