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I once was happy, when while yet a child, I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, And, when elastic as the mountain air, To my light spirit, care was yet unknown And evil unforeseen:—Early it came, And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide, When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast—Haunts of my youth!