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 In such an hour he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him; Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him— The city bright below; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And banners floating in the sunny air; And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there one Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

"This may be poetry, for aught I know," Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning