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HERE is a legend full of joy and pain,

An old tradition told of former years,

When Israel built the Temple once again

And stayed his tears.

'Twas in the chamber where the Wood Pile lay,

The logs wherewith the altar's flame was fed;

There hope recalled the Light of vanished day,

The Light long fled.

A priest moved slowly o'er the marble floor,

Sorting the fuel in the chamber stored;

Frail was his form;—he ministered no more

Before the Lord.