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I look'd on the mountains—a vapour lay Folding their heights in its dark array: Thou brakest forth—and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot— Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;— But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose's heart; And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed A tender smile on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.