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Rh Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is Oh more than happy!—he has reached his home, And is a wanderer no more. How often in that fair romantic land Where he had been a soldier, he had turned From the rich groves of, to think upon The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air, To sicken for his own fresh mountain-breeze; And loved the night, for then familiar things, The moon and stars, were visible, and looked As they had always done, and shed sweet tears To think that he might see them shine again Over his own ! That silver moon, In all her perfect beauty, is now rising; The purple billows of the west have yet A shadowy glory; all beside is calm,