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When forth, along their thousand rills,
The mountain people come,
Of glorious martyrdom.
And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent's voice,
Then let thy soul rejoice.
Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn,
Through shame, through death made strong,
Witness of God so long!
SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.
PILGRIM! O say, hath thy cheek been fann'd
Ias thou heard the music still wandering by,
Then say, are there fairer vales than those
sunshine and song! they are lying far
Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the vear assemble on that sacred day to worship in the
Many were they that have died for thee,
WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.
Nor for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
or the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast Jh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!
For the stormy fields of war;
And a sunny land afar.
Pour'd on the steel-clad line;
Her seat beneath the vine.
And the red blood stain'd his crest;
Might scarcely fan her breast
Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,
And again he cross’d the seas;
That perish with a breeze.
For all things bright and fair-
How had death found her there?
END OF THE FIRST VOLUTT