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far from Paris, in fair Fontainebleau,

A lovely, memory-haunted hamlet lies,

Whose tender spell makes captive, and defies

Forgetfulness. The peasants come and go,—

Their backs too used to stoop,—and patient sow

The harvest which their narrow need supplies;

Even as when, Earth's pathos in his eyes,

Millet dwelt here, companion of their woe.

Loved Barbizon! With thorns, not laurels, crowned,

He looked thy sorrows in the face, and found—