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As if her least smile could confer A kingdom on its worshipper; Or ever care, or ever fear Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere. And the young bard, the first time praise Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays, Though loftier laurel, higher name, May crown the minstrel's noontide fame, They will not bring the deep content Of his lure's first encouragement. And where the glory that will yield The flush and glow of his first field To the young chief? Will ever Feel as he now is feeling?—Never.

The sun went down or ere they gain'd The glen where the chief band remain'd.