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I would enquire how journeying long, The vast and pathless ocean o'er, You ply again those pinions strong, And come to build anew among The scenes you left before;

But if, as colder breezes blow, Prophetic of the waning year, You hide, tho' none know when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow, And linger torpid here;

Thus lost to life, what favouring dream Bids you to happier hours awake; And tells, that dancing in the beam, The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, The May-fly on the lake?