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42 The song of the wild bird is on the wind, The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
 * Of waves upon the bank,
 * Of leaves upon the bough.

But all is song and beauty in the land, Beneath her skies of June; then journey on,
 * A thousand scenes like this
 * Will greet you ere the eve.

Ye linger yet—ye see not, hear not now, The sunny smile, the music of to-day,
 * Your thoughts are wandering up,
 * Far up the stream of time;

And boyhood’s lore and fireside-listened tales Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe
 * That valley’s storied name,

Strangers no more, a kindred “pride of place,” Pride in the gift of country and of name,
 * Speaks in your eye and step—
 * Ye tread your native land.

And your high thoughts are on her glory’s day, The solemn sabbath of the week of battle,
 * Whose tempests bowed to earth
 * Her foeman’s banner here.