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S valley, whose streams flow as sparkling and bright As the stars that descend in the depths of the night; Whose violets fling their rich breath on the air, Sweet spendthrifts of treasure the Spring has flung there.

My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thine own; Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown: But still it is something to gaze upon thee, And bless earth, that such peace on her bosom can be.