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His hand is on the snowy sail, His step is on the prow, And back the cold night-winds have flung The dark curls from his brow; That brow to which his native heaven A something of itself has given.

But all too mix'd with earthly stain, The nameless shadowy care, Which tells, that though Heaven gave it birth, Its home has not been there; And here, the earth and heaven seem blent In one discordant element.