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Where'er a human heart doth wear
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,
After a life more true and fair,
There is the true man's birth-place grand,
Where'er a single slave doth pine,
Thank God for such a birthright, brother,
That spot of earth is thine and mine!
His is a world-wide fatherland!
WORN and footsore was the Prophet,
When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still.
"God of all the olden prophets,
Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee,
As thy chosen ones of yore?
"Hear me, guider of my fathers,
Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
But the tuft of moss before him
"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I,
Looking to the holy mountain
"Still thou speakest with thy children
“Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things,
Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me,
"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway,
"In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me."