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The white foam dashes high—away, away! Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!—down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear, Floating upborne on the blue summer-air, And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams, And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!— Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go, To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, To the rocks that resound with the water's play— I hear the sweet laugh of my fount—give way!

Give way!—the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more.