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The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade; These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.
THE sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck thro' the snow.
From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Marked by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
ON A TEAR.
OH! that the Chemist's magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye;
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, that gilds the mine.
Than any gem
Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.