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flower-clad meadows, and ye silent vallies,

Encircled round with verdure-covered trees:

O welcome, welcome, beauty's nymph, who sallies—

Throwing bright glances o'er your luxuries;

Is the stream brighter—are the flowers more fair—

Is the high poplar taller—doth the bird

Of the green wood sing sweeter to the air,

And gayer is the reaper's music heard?

Ye winds, bring all your odors—nymphs, that hide

Youselves in grottos, join in dance and song:

Lift up your heads, ye hills, in joy and pride—

Here all is harmony—the maid—the scene—

Here beauty is and incense—here have been—

Such goddess to such temple doth belong.