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And mine the golden cup to hide, Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died. Search the depths of an Indian mine, Where are the colours to match with mine?

Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer rose is singing.

I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute, Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, Linger I over the tones that swell From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-shell; I love the sky-lark's morning hymn, Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,