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Rh :Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
 * Even of Campbell’s pen hath pictured: he
 * Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
 * Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery
 * With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
 * Known like old friends, and greeted from afar:
 * And there are tales of sad reality,
 * In the dark legends of thy border war,

With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude’s are.


 * The bard’s creations, moulded not of clay,
 * Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned—
 * Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave—where are they?
 * We need not ask. The people of to-day
 * Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,
 * And hospitable too—for ready pay;
 * With manners like their roads, a little rough,

And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though tough.


 * And the town records, is the Albert now
 * Of Wyoming: like him, in church and state,
 * Her Doric column; and upon his brow