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land! where first without a thorn, The germs of infant hope were born, Where budding joys sprang fair and new To meet the sun, and drink the dew; Though scenes more wonderful and wild, Have since my charmed eye beguiled, Yet none have with such graphic art Impressed their semblance on my heart, And none can boast thy magic power To rule the musing, twilight hour. Come in thy garb of rock and stream, With wind-swept harp and sunset gleam, And eye o'er dizzy heights ascending, And voice with falling waters blending; Come!—for my filial feelings greet Thine image with communion sweet. Nurse of my earliest dreams! how dear Still steals thy music o'er my ear, From warbling nest, or summer-shower, Or mountain streamlet's murmuring power, Or liquid flute, where graceful glides Some fairy boat, o'er moon-lit tides; Still rise those tones, with tuneful swell From miser-memory's treasure-cell. Nurse of my youth! what clime hath spread In sheltered nook, or vernal bed,