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our own Karpathia's quiet vales,

O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with stone

Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls,

Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne.

Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide,

Its golden-water fountain—not the juice

Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce

When Vulcan fann'd the fire—these will not hide,

These will not heal, my sorrows—I can find

No freshening stream to cool my burning breast,

No ointment on the wounds of life to bind—

Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest;

Without its maidens, what were Arcady?

Without its Eve, what's paradise to me?