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C. M.

Mrs. Barbauld.

The Christian Pilgrim.

Our country is Immanuel’s ground;

We seek that promised soil;

The songs of Zion cheer our hearts,

While strangers here we toil.

Oft do our eyes with joy o’erflow,

And oft are bathed in tears;

But only heaven our hopes can raise,

And sin alone, our fears.

We tread the path our Master trod;

We bear the cross he bore;

And every thorn that wounds our feet

His temples pierced before.

The flowers that spring along the road

We scarcely stoop to pluck;

We walk o’er beds of shining ore,

Nor waste one wishful look.

We purge our mortal dross away,

Refining as we run;

And while we die to earth and sense,

Our heaven is here begun.

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