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Rh

H! hills belov'd!where once a happy child, Your beechen shades, 'your turf, your flowers among,' I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild, And woke your echoes with my artless song. Ah! hills belov'd!your turf, your flowers remain; But can they peace to this sad breast restore; For one poor moment sooth the sense of pain, And teach a breaking heart to throb no more? And you, Aruna!in the vale below, As to the sea your limpid waves you bear, Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow, To drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah! no!when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone, There's no oblivionbut in death alone!