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250 I see Kneph, blooming, dressed in blue, with the crown
 * of feathers on his head,

I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying
 * to the people, Do not weep for me,

This is not my true country, I have lived banished from
 * my true country—I now go back there,

I return to the celestial sphere, where every one goes
 * in his turn.

I see the battle-fields of the earth—grass grows upon
 * them, and blossoms and corn,

I see the tracks of ancient and modern expeditions.

I see the nameless masonries, venerable messages of
 * the unknown events, heroes, records of the earth.

I see the places of the sagas, I see pine-trees and fir-trees torn by northern blasts, I see granite boulders and cliffs—I see green meadows
 * and lakes,

I see the burial-cairns of Scandinavian warriors, I see them raised high with stones, by the marge of
 * restless oceans, that the dead men's spirits, when
 * they wearied of their quiet graves, might rise up
 * through the mounds, and gaze on the tossing
 * billows, and be refreshed by storms, immensity,
 * liberty, action.

I see the steppes of Asia, I see the tumuli of Mongolia—I see the tents of Kamucks
 * and Baskirs,

I see the nomadic tribes, with herds of oxen and cows, I see the table-lands notched with ravines—I see the jungles and deserts,