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And its waves pass in song, as the sea shell's soft numbers Had given to those waters their sweetest and best.

The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and sunny; There the first birth of violets' odour-showers weep— There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey, Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.

Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison, The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun; Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen? Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?—not one.