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120  Still does the gift to thee belong Of valour, beauty, and of song— Still shall thy eagle ramparts stand— The throne—the shield—the altar of our land!

has its summer flow’rs That bloom and pass away— The sea is track’d with showers Of light and snowy spray; But neither flower nor foam can vie With the bright hues of yonder sky!
 * Those clouds how beautiful they are!

Those rovers of the blast! That in fantastic wreaths afar O’er rock and mountain cast, Seem like the tresses of the maid That—(as she list’ning hung O’er the lov’d harp her minstrel play’d, The praise he oft had sung)— Fell blending with the murm’ring strings— Ah, me! in bright meanderings!