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But, as the stream (though time or art may turn The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn, To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers, From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,) Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep, Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free, Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee! To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong, Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less, To the green memory of thy loveliness, Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height, In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!