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248 Years have gone by, and remembrance now covers,
 * With the tinge of the moonbeam, the thoughts of that hour;

Yet still in his day-dream the wanderer hovers
 * Round the cottage he left and its green woven bower.

And Hope lingers near him, her wildest song breathing,
 * And points to a future day, distant and dim,

When the finger of sunset, its eglantine weaving,
 * Shall brighten the home of his childhood for him.