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Rh Our climate’s nightingale, her garden bird, From lips unseen, unknown, this whispered song she heard: The summer winds are wandering here
 * In mountain freshness, pure and free,

And all that to the eye are dear
 * In rock and torrent, flower and tree,

Upon the gazing stranger come,
 * Till, in his starlight dreams at even,

It seems another Eden-home,
 * Reared by the word—the breath of Heaven.

To-morrow—and the stranger’s gone,
 * And other scenes, as bright as this,

May win it from his bosom soon,
 * And dim its wild-wood loveliness.

But ever round this spot his thought
 * Will be—while Memory’s leaves are green;

The fairy scene may be forgot,
 * But not the Fairy of the scene.

The song she sang, the lip that breathed it,
 * The cheek of rose, the speaking eye,

The brow of snow, the hair that wreathed it,
 * In their young life and purity,

Will dwell within his heart among
 * His holiest, longest cherished things,