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Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear The music of its flowering shades, And ever should the sound be near Of founts that ripple through its glades; The sound, and sight, and flashing ray Of joyous waters in their play!

But woe for him who sees them burst With their bright spray-showers to the lake! Earth has no spring to quench the thirst That semblance in his soul shall wake, For ever pouring through his dreams, The gush of those untasted streams!

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, The waters of our deserts lie, Yet at their source his lip shall burn, Parch'd with the fever's agony! From the blue mountains to the main, Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

E'en thus our hunters came of yore Back from their long and weary quest;