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 Thy slave, if e'er the Power were such To aught of mortal birth that came. Faint as a city of the air In seeming, delicately fair In colour as the flowers of Spring, Thou risest, an enchanted thing, A pomp—a play-work of the cloud To which the hills this lovely plain Spread out, scarce hoping to retain! Silent, yet longing to rejoice aloud!

Fair all the scene in which I stand; I sing—so Fancy doth command; —But I am in a foreign land.

before this, ye sovran pines, When with a mighty wave ye swung, A thousand to one impulse flung Adown one wind, in trembling lines Your might I honoured, feebly sung