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Nor is their virtuous hope devoid of fear; The perils of that enterprize they know; Some savage horde may have its fastness here, A race to whom a stranger is a foe; Who not for friendly words, nor proffer'd show Of gifts, will peace or parley entertain. If by such hands their blameless blood should flow To serve the Lamb who for their sins was slain, Blessed indeed their lot, for so to die is gain!

Them thus pursuing where the track may lead, A human voice arrests upon their way. They stop, and thither whence the sounds proceed, All eyes are turn'd in wonder,—not dismay, For sure such sounds might charm all fear away. No nightingale whose brooding mate is nigh, From some sequester'd bower at close of day, No lark rejoicing in the orient sky Ever pour'd forth so wild a strain of melody.