XCII.
A thousand vintages to-day,
The dear Redeemer’s blood display,
From Samos’ isle of ruddy vines,
To where the Finland chalice shines;
And where the Hindu hand hath crush’d
The grape that in the jungle blush’d;
Or where the Huron’s cluster wild,
Is on the altar, undefiled.
And grain that hath to harvest grown,