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upon a breezy height, and marked The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn, And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe With a forgiving fragrance, even in death Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams That cheered their sedgy banks. But at my feet Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones That formed their fortress, who in earlier days Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime, And from the madness of a tyrant king, Were strewed around. Methinks, yon wreck stands forth In ragged strength once more, and firmly guards From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France, Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold