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 CORA

through thy arching aisles,

O Nature, I perceive

What brooding stillness fills the lonesome choirs

Where, heaven'd late, thy sweet musicians sung;

What rude benumbing touch

Strips from reluctant boughs

The languid leaves, and bares to common view

The sacred nest,—the mute, expressive nest,

Whose state defenseless tells

Of fledgeling treasures flown,—

Then, like the prudent birds, my thoughts take flight,

Winging o'er wintry fields to find the spring.

Somewhere on Earth's cold breast

The dauntless crocus glows,

And fair Narcissus hangs his head and dreams:

There,—laughing, blushing, like a happy bride,

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