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And not the Exile's—when midst lonely billows He wakes the alpine notes his mother sung, Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, Where murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung.

And not the Pilgrim's—though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his Ave song, when day grows dim, Yet as he journeys, pensively and slowly, Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.

But thou!—the spirit which at eve is filling All the hushed air and reverential sky, Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling, This is the soul of thy rich harmony.

This bears up high those breathings of devotion Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free; Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion Is the dream-haunted music land for thee.