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Calls yet 'twixt Calpe's height, and Abyla Unto remotest seas.

And yet, who by the incense altar linger To praise the unerring, far-darting, bow-stringer The Sweetest Singer?

From the odorous Mother of Myrrh, Arabia, Who bids on every altar incense wreathe From happy spice-land sweet. Whose Queens in royal weed, from head to feet Dyed with thy purple pomp, Phœnicia, The fainting potency of perfume breathe. From cinnamon, cedar, sandal, cassia; The while the fateful stars doth soothly scan Thy spell enforcéd stars, Arabia The pale rapt Magian.