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Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains!—but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by, From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer's breezy sigh! And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain,