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With a low and lovely tone In its thrilling power alone; And thy lyre's deep silvery string, Touch'd as by a breeze's wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, And thy cheek a flush hath caught From the joy of kindled thought; And the burning words of song From thy lip flow fast and strong, With a rushing stream's delight In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown'd of Rome!—Oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?—