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So, take and use Thy work!

Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain of the stuff, what warpings past the

aim !
My times be in Thy hand !

Perfect the cup as planned !
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the

same !


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HY should a man raise stone and wood

Between him and the sky ?
Why should he fear the brotherhood
Of all things from on high?
Why should a man not raise his form

As shelterless and free
As stands in sunshine or in storm

The mountain and the tree ?

Or if we thus, as creatures frail,

Before our time should die,
And courage and endurance fail,

Weak Nature to supply ;-
Let us at least a dwelling choose,

The simplest that can keep

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From parching heat and noxious dews

Our pleasure and our sleep.

The Fathers of our mortal race,

While still remembrance nursed Traditions of the glorious place

Whence Adam fled accursed, Rested in tents, as best became

Children, whose mother earth Had overspread with sinful shame

The beauty of her birth.

In cold they sought the sheltered nook,

In heat the airy shade,
And oft their casual home forsook

The morrow it was made ;
Diverging many separate roads,

They wandered, fancy-driven, Nor thought of other fixed abodes

Than Paradise or Heaven.

And while this holy sense remained,

'Mid easy shepherd cares,

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In tents they often entertained

The angels unawares :
And to their spirits' fervid gaze

The myst'ry was revealed,
How the world's wound in future days

Should by God's love be healed.

Thus we, so late and far a link

Of generation's chain,
Delight to dwell in tents and think

The old world young again;
With Faith as wide and Thought as narrow

As theirs, who little more
From life demanded than the sparrow

Gay-chirping by the door.

The Tent! how easily it stands,

Almost as if it rose
Spontaneous from the green or sand,

Express for our repose :
Or, rather, it is we who plant

This root, where'er we roam,
And hold, and can to others grant,

The comforts of a home.

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Make the divan—the carpets spread,

The ready cushions pile;
Rest, weary heart ! rest, weary head !

From pain and pride awhile;
And all your happiest memories woo,

And mingle with your dreams
The yellow desert glimm'ring through

The subtle veil of beams.

We all have much we would forget

Be that forgotten now!
And placid Hope, instead, shall set

Her seal upon your brow:
Imagination's prophet eye

By her shall view unfurled The future greatnesses that lie

Hid in the Eastern world.

To slavish tyrannies their term

Of terror she foretells ;
She brings to bloom the faith whose germ

In Islam deeply dwells;
Accomplishing each mighty birth

That shall one day be born

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