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Rh By England’s king; a bargain, as is thought.
 * Are we worth more? Let’s prove it now we can;

For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, .” It was done.

Hers are not Tempe’s nor Arcadia’s spring,
 * Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,

The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
 * Such wild enchantment o’er Boccaccio’s tales

Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing
 * Of life’s best angel, Health, is on her gales

Through sun and snow; and in the autumn-time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.

Her clear, warm heaven at noon—the mist that shrouds
 * Her twilight hills—her cool and starry eves,

The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds,
 * The rainbow beauty of her forest-leaves,

Come o’er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
 * Where’er his web of song her poet weaves;

And his mind’s brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood’s days.

And when you dream of woman, and her love;
 * Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power;