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are no sounds in the wanderer's ear, To breathe of the home that he holds so dear; Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose, The vines on your sunny hills repose; And your river is clear as its silver tide Had no task save to mirror the flowers beside. Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me As the land which my spirit is pining to see, Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the wood, Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has stood; Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its might, And the cavern is black as the slumber of night;