Upon a thousand mountains sown,
From green Arkansas, to Cathay,
Is bless’d for Jesu’s flesh to-day.
XCIII.
And every altar, Greek and Goth,
Is cover’d with its snowy cloth;
And kneeling Christians, every where,
Are fed with sacramental fare.
In farthest Ind, I see them bow,
The naked shape, the swarthy brow,