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Rh

And in the midst, beneath a shade Of clustered rose, a fountain played, Sprinkling its scented waters round, With a sweet and lulling sound,— O’er oranges, like Eastern gold, Half hidden by the dark green fold Of their large leaves;—o’er hyacinth bells, Where every summer odour dwells. And, nestled in the midst, a pair Of white wood-doves, whose home was there: And like an echo to their song, At times a murmur past along; A dying tone, a plaining fall, So sad, so wild, so musical— As the wind swept across the wire, And waked my lone Æolian lyre,