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where a crowd of pilgrims toil Yon craggy steeps among! Strange their attire, and strange their mien, As wild they press along. Their eyes with bitter streaming tears Now bend towards the ground, Now rapt, to heaven their looks they raise, And bursts of song resound. And hark! a voice from 'midst the throng Cries, "Stranger, wouldst thou know Our name, our race, our destined home, Our cause of joy or woe,—