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Hallow'd by man, in his dreams of old, Unto beings not of this mortal mould Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours, And sought with its fancied sound to still The heart earth could not fill.

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, O'er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown Thousand of gifts, to the sunny sea Have ye swept along in your wanderings free, And thrill'd to the murmur of many a vow— Where all is silent now!

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been So link'd in love to your margins green; That still, though ruin'd, your early shrines In beauty gleam through the southern vines, And the ivyed chapels of colder skies, On your wild banks arise.