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Thy path is not as mine:—where thou art blest, My spirit would but wither: mine own grief Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, Than all thy happiness.

the summer's breath, on the south-wind borne, Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn? Hath it lured thee, Bird! from their sounding caves, To the river-shores, where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell? Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread, And the heath like a royal robe is spread?