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 I will dig a well for the passers-by,
And none shall suffer from thirst as I.
I saw, as I prayed, my home once more,
The house, the barn, the elms by the door,
The grass-lined road, that riverward wound,
The tall slate stones of the burying-ground,
The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill,
The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill,
And I knew in that vision beyond the sea,
The very place where my well must be.
God heard my prayer in that evil day;
He led my feet in their homeward way,
From false mirage and dried — up well,
And the hot sand storms of a land of hell,
Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap,
A city held in its stony lap,
The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat,
And my heart leaped up with joy thereat;
For there was a ship at anchor lying,
A Christian flag at its mast-head flying,
And sweetest of sounds to my homesick ear
Was my native tongue in the sailor's cheer.
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