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And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, Thro' the feathery fern and the olive boughs, And the gleam on its path as it steals away Into deeper shades from the sultry day, And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow, I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe!

Be still thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry! My spirit sickens, as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round? Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies, Under the purple of southern skies? With the streamy gold of the sun that shines In thro' the cloud of its clustering vines, And the summer-breath of the myrtle-flowers; Borne from the mountains in dewy hours,