But save the Church by leaving her to God.
XI.
So pass the hours, till westward through the skies
The sun begins to turn, and, savory grown,
From Waban’s ready feast the vapors rise;
The group beneath the beech then sit them down;
“Thou kind and generous man,” our Founder cries,
“Our brave defender! thy complexion brown
Bars not thy presence;—sit thou at the board,—