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Rh

But was in the first stage Of life's enchanted pilgrimage: 'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall:— Enough for him to watch beside The bursting of the mountain tide, To wander through the twilight shade By the dark, arching pine-boughs made, And at the evening's starlit hour To seek for some less shadowy bower, Where dewy leaf, and flower pale, Made the home of the nightingale. Or he would seek the turret hall, And there, unheard, unseen of all, When even the night winds were mute, His rich tones answer'd to the lute;