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dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs, With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-wing'd messenger, On Mercy's errands, trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Bid them, with tear-drops, nurse ye? Tree, nor shrub Dare yon drear atmosphere. No polar pine Uprears a veteran front. Yet there ye stand. Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice, And looking up, with trustful eyes, to Him Who bids you bloom, unblanch'd, amid the waste Of desolation.