Chapter 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,
Upon a thousand mountains sown,
From green Arkansas, to Cathay,
Is bless’d for Jesu’s flesh to-day.