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is a strain to read among the hills, The old and full of voices;—by the source Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills The solitude with sound; for in its course Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.