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Not in a close and bounded atmosphere Does life put forth its noblest and its best; 'Tis from the mountain's top that we look forth, And see how small the world is at our feet. There the free winds sweep with unfettered wing; There the sun rises first, and flings the last, The purple glories of the summer eve; There does the eagle build his mighty nest; And there the snow stains not its purity. When we descend the vapour gathers round, And the path narrows: small and worthless things Obstruct our way; and, in ourselves, we feel The strong compulsion of their influence. We grow like those with whom we daily blend: To yield is to resemble.

, my dearest uncle! now I find the truth of what you used to tell me. I once thought