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Rh From the bleak mountain and the naked plain; And gold and gems with artificial blaze, Supply the ickly un's declining rays. But oon, returning on the wetern gale, She eeks the boom of the gray vale: There, wrapt in careles eae, attunes the lyre To the wild warblings of the woodland quire: The daiied turf her humble throne upplies, And early primroes around her rie. We'll follow where the miling goddes leads, Thro' tangled forets or enamel'd meads; O'er pathles hills her airy form we'll chae, In ilent glades her fairy footteps trace: Small pains there needs her footteps to purue, She cannot fly from friendhip, and from you. Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds, And o'er her boom breathe the wetern winds. Already now the now-drop dares appear,