The African Church

THE lions prowl around, thy grave to guard,
And Moslem prayers profane
At morn and eve come sounding: yet unscared
The Holy Shades remain: —
Cyprian, thy chief of watchmen, wise and bold,
Trusting the lore of his own loyal heart,
And Cyprian's Master, as in age high-soul'd,
Yet choosing as in youth the better part
There, too, unwearied Austin, thy keen gaze
On Atlas' steep, a thousand years and more,
Dwells, waiting for the first rekindling rays,
When Truth upon the solitary shore
For the fall'n West may light his beacon as of yore.
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