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Something that mellows and that glorifies, Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, As o'er some blessed isle; E'en like the soft and spiritual glow, Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow Sleeps lovingly awhile.

The very whispers of the wind have there A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear Greeting from some bright shore, Where none have said Farewell!—where no decay Lends the faint crimson to the dying day; Where the storm's might is o'er.

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, In the deep sanctuary of one true breast Hidden from earthly ill: There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, Thine inmost soul can thrill.