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How divine The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, To roam at large among unpeopled glens, And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps!— Regions consecrate To oldest time!—And, reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, Be as a presence or a motion—One Among the many there.

winds! oh! whither do ye call me? Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue! Chains of care to lower earth enthral me, Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo?