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Summer was prodigal there of her roses, And the ringdoves filled every grove with their song.

But those Brothers were weary; for hope like a glory Lived in each bosom—that hope of the future Which turns where it kindles the heart to an altar, And urges to honour and noble achievement. To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest: For the future is purchased by scorning the present, And life is redeemed from its clay soil by fame. They leant in the shades of the palm-trees at evening, When a crimson haze swept down the side of the mountain: Glorious in power and terrible beauty, The Spirit that dwelt in the star of their birth