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Before that human step had left Its sully on thy brow, The glory of thy forehead made A shrine to those below: Men gaz'd upon thee as a star, And turned to earth again, With dreams like thine own floating clouds, The vague but not the vain. No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till blent with nature's mysteries It half forgets its clay. It catches loftier impulses; And owns a nobler power;— The poet and philosopher Are born of such an hour.

But now where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream; Our steps have been o'er every soil, Our sails o'er every stream. Those isles, the beautiful Azores, The fortunate, the fair! We looked for their perpetual spring To find it was not there. Bright El Dorado, land of gold, We have so sought for thee, There's not a spot in all the globe Where such a land can be.