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A land that sees no parting, That hears no sound of sighs, That waits thee with immortal air— Lift, lift those anxious eyes!

Oh! how like thee, thou trembler, Man's spirit fondly clings, With timid love, to this, its world Of old familiar things!

We pant, we thirst for fountains That gush not here below; On, on we toil, allured by dreams Of the living water's flow:

We pine for kindred natures, To mingle with our own; For communings more full and high Than aught by mortal known: