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And makes sweet music to the morning; while All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes Wail plaintively—the only sounds beside The hum of the wild bees around some trunk Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared Their honey palace. Where the forest ends, Stretched a wide brown heath, till the blue sky Becomes its boundary; there the only growth Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered thorn And yellow furze: beyond are the grass-fields, And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat;— These border round the village. The bright river Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, Half hidden by the aged trees that time Has spared as honouring their sanctity,