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Rh

Oh! it is said, my Isabel, that Heaven Hath closed the gates of Eden on mankind, And Paradise no longer blooms; but we Have found, that innocent and faithful hearts Can make their own Elysium. Bounteous God Still blesses his creation.—What a scene Of glory is around us; not a cloud O'ershades the radience of the summer sky— Turquoise and gold, the multitudinous stars Peep from the tender azure; Zephyr's breath, In gentlest sighs, scatters a silv'ry shower From the rich blossoms of the orange-trees, And wafts their precious odours on its wings.

The flowers drop balm, and trooping fairies haste To gather in their harvest, ere the bee Hath roused his drowsy head. Soft music steals