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Where the sunny eyes whose beams Waken'd me from my soft dreams?— These are with the swallows gone,— Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.

Oh! for some sweet southern clime, Where 'tis ever summer time,— Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb Is amid new birth of bloom,— Where green leaves are ever springing, Where the lark is always singing,— One of those bright isles which lie Fair beneath an azure sky, Isles of cinnamon and spice, Shadow each of Paradise,— Where the flowers shine with dyes, Tinted bright from the sun-rise,—