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The red sword in th' oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;

Fallen are the faithful and the pure,

No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.

Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last-
And by the hope which finds no ark,

Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark

We trust thee!-As the sailor knows

That in its place of bright repose

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud

May veil it with a midnight shroud.

We know thou reign'st!-All Holy One, All Just!

And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on-

By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment-

And by his parting word, which rose

Through faith victorious o'er all woes

We know that Thou mayst wound, mayst break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,

In our deep need to Thee we turn!

To whom but Thee?-All Merciful, All Just!

In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN

TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

"Thanks be to God for the mountains !"

HOWITT's Book of the Seasons.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon

Whose light must never die; We are guardians of an altar

Midst the silence of the sky:

The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the dark resounding caverns,

Where thy still, small voice is heard ;

For the strong pines of the forests,

That by thy breath are stirr'd;

For the storms, on whose free pinions

Thy spirit walks abroad;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights,

And the stag that knows no master,

Seeks there his wild delights;

But we, for thy communion,

Have sought the mountain sod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain,

Far, far below us waves;

The war-horse of the spearman

Cannot reach our lofty caves:

Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold

Of freedom's last abode ;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

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