Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/77

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From the Mother who weaves us silk of deftest dye Spun in dim depth of secret Serica, And cunning broidery.

And ye whence come ye led of your desire To the lyric leader of the starry Quire The Purifier?

From the mighty Mother of music, Africa, Where Egypt Nilus' yearly bounty craves To flood her land of drought. Where first, long since, the thrilling harp rang out, 'Ere yet the cymbal was, or cithara From the midnight Mother of ebony, Nubia, Mart of the ivory tusks, the sable slaves. Mysterious Mother of marvels, Africa, Whose voice inviting to venturous voyages,