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from the dells where ye first were born, From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn; Rise, for the dews of the morn are bright, And haste away with your eyes of light. The greenhouse princes, with gathering frown, On your simple garbs may look haughtily down, Yet shrink not—His finger your heads hath bowed, Who heeds the lowly, and humbles the proud. The tardy spring, and the frosty sky, Have meted your robes with a miser's eye, And checked the blush of your blossoms free; With a gentler friend your home shall be, To a kinder ear you may tell your tale Of the zephyr's kiss, and the scented gale. Ye are charmed! ye are charmed! and your fragrant sigh Is health to the bosom on which ye die.