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and dark as the source of yon river, Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know, Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver, Is the course of its waves as in music they flow.

The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom, Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made; The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom, As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade.

The sunshine, like Hope, in its noontide hour slumbers On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest;