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Rh the last glimpse of with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;