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Turn thee to thine own broad waters,Labor in thy native earth,Call salvation's sons and daughtersFrom the clime that gave thee birth.

Here are pilgrim-souls benighted,Here are evils to be slain,Graces in their budding blighted,Spirits bound in error's chain.

Raise the Gospel's glorious streamerWhere yon cloud-topp'd forest waves,Follower of the meek RedeemerServe him 'mid thy fathers' graves.