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[293] Some fever of the blood and brain,
     Some self-exalting spell,
The scourger's keen delight of pain,
     The Dervish dance, the Orphic strain,
The wild-haired Bacchant's yell,—

The desert's hair-grown hermit sunk
     The saner brute below;
The naked Santon, hashish-drunk,
     The cloister madness of the monk,
The fakir's torture-show!

And yet the past comes round again,
     And new doth old fulfil;
In sensual transports wild as vain
     We brew in many a Christian fane
The heathen Soma still!

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
     Forgive our foolish ways!
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
     In purer lives Thy service find,
In deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard
     Beside the Syrian sea
The gracious calling of the Lord,
     Let us, like them, without a word,
Rise up and follow Thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee!
     O calm of hills above,

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