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4

And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance Of the faery banks of the bright Durance; Just where at first its current flows 'Mid willows and its own white rose,— Its clear and early tide, or ere A shade, save trees, its waters bear.

The sun, like an Indian king, has left To that fair river a royal gift Of gold and purple; no longer shines His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines Sweeping beneath the burning sky Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep. —And with its towers cleaving the red Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread