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Not at Mount Cenis' stormy base, Where crags on crags stupendous hurl'd, And tower-crown'd cliffs portentous trace The ruins of an elder world, Where keenly gaz'd thy charmed eye On Nature's cloud-wreath'd majesty.

Not at her feet,—that Queen of Earth, Who left unsceptred and alone, By mighty shades of warrior-birth, Half slumbering on her seven-hill'd throne, Still proudly takes, with palsied hand, The homage of each pilgrim-land.

Not where thou best didst love to stand, A herald for thy Saviour's name, Dispensing to a listening band High words of eloquence and flame, Such as do burst from lip and soul, Touch'd by the "altar's living coal."

Yet, what are all the classic springs That murmur thro' their ancient grove, Or all the pomp that Nature brings To wake the young enthusiast's love, Or fond Affections strongest tie, Weigh'd with their bliss in Christ who die?