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Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none must wander from the beaten road,— All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away To where the green earth laughs to the clear day, To the deep valley, where a thousand trees Keep a green court for fairy revelries,— To some small island on a lonely lake, Where only swans the diamond waters break, Where the pines hang in silence oe'r the tide And the stream gushes from the mountain side; These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude.