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Recoil the fierce invokings of despair, And I am left far distanced in the race, The lonely one of earth!—Aye, this is just. I am not worthy that upon my breast In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield Thy spirit unto God!

Thou art! thou art! Oh! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness, Ev'n in the presence of eternal things, Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimm'd, Assert their lofty claims; and these are not For one dark hour to cancel!—We are here, Before that altar which received the vows Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is For such a witness, in the sight of Heaven, And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange Of our tried hearts' forgiveness.—Who are they, That in one path have journey'd, needing not Forgiveness at its close?

The Moors! the Moors!