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I've roam'd through varied regions, Where stranger-streamlets run, And where the proud magnolia flaunts Beneath a southern sun, And where the sparse and stinted pine Puts forth its sombre form, A vassal to the arctic cloud, And to the tyrant storm,

And where the pure unruffled lakes In placid wavelets roll, Or where sublime Niagara shakes The wonder-stricken soul, I've seen the temple's sculptured pile, The pencil's glorious art, Yet still those old green trees I wore Depictured on my heart.

Years fled; my native vale I sought, Where those tall elm-trees wave; But many a column of its trust Lay broken in the grave. The ancient and the white-hair'd men, Whose wisdom was its stay, For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice Made answer, "Where are they?"

I sought the thrifty matron, Whose busy wheel was heard When the early beams of morning Awoke the chirping bird;