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 He turned him back: “O master dear,
We are but men misled;
And thou hast sought a city here
To find a grave instead.”
“As God shall will! what matters where
A true man's cross may stand,
So Heaven be o'er it here as there
In pleasant Norman land?
“These woods, perchance, no secret hide
Of lordly tower and hall;
Yon river in its wanderings wide
Has washed no city wall;
“Yet mirrored in the sullen stream
The holy stars are given:
Is Norembega, then, a dream
Whose waking is in Heaven?
“No builded wonder of these lands
My weary eyes shall see;
A city never made with hands
Alone awaiteth me —
“‘ Urbs Syon mystica;’ I see
Its mansions passing fair,
‘ Condita coe;lo;’ let me be,
Dear Lord, a dweller there!”
Above the dying exile hung
The vision of the bard,
As faltered on his failing tongue
The song of good Bernard.
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