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Rh Till the world-finder rent the veil away, And caught the giant-foundling's savage tone, Turn ye to us, young emmets of a day, Who flit admiring round your ancient throne? Seek ye a boon of us,—the nameless, the unknown?

We, who have blest you with our lisping tongue, And to your baptism bow'd when life was new, And when upon our mother's breast we hung Your flowing nectar with our life-stream drew, Who dipp'd our young feet in Castalian dew, And pois'd with tiny arm that lance and shield, Before whose might the boastful Persian flew, We, who Ulysses trac'd o'er flood and field, What can ye ask of us, we would not joy to yield?

Ye ask no warrior's aid,—the Turk hath fled, And on your throne Bavaria's prince reclines,— No gold or gems, their dazzling light to shed, Pearl from the sea, nor diamond from the mines,— Ye ask that ray from Learning's lamp which shines, To guide your sons, so long in error blind, The cry speeds forth from yon embowering vines,— "Give bread and water to the famish'd mind, And from its durance dark the imprison'd soul unbind."

Behold the Apostle of the Cross sublime, The warn'd of Heaven, the eloquent, the bold, Who spake to Athens in her hour of prime, Braving the thunders of Olympus old, And spreading forth the Gospel's snowy fold, Where heathen altars pour'd a crimson tide, And stern tribunals their decrees unroll'd,