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more the eternal melodies from far, Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star, Above the poet's world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turning, As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest. —Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne'er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.