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The Procession.

Hail! thou most sweet
And gracious one,
Is it not meet
To praise thee when the sun
Pours forth his strong far-reaching heat,
And then at evening when his race is run.

Ah! like a summer sea
At eventide
Thy beauty is to me,
I care for nought beside,
Save only thee;
Let thine anthems be upraised, let no chorus be denied.

Ah! soft and sweet
The maidens' voices raise
The hymn of praise,
As through the winding street
With eager feet
They pass, crowned with roses and with bays.

If in the holy place
Men worship thee;
And pray to see thy face,
So we.

If in the inmost fane
Thy glory stands;
Grant us to touch, being without stain,
Thine hands.

If the priest veils his head
And boweth low;
Make us too, pure, as thou hast said,
As snow.