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O'er yon fair lawn, where oft in various talk
The fav'ring Muses join'd our evening walk,
Up yonder hill that rears its crest sublime,
Where we were wont with gradual steps to climb,
To hear the Lark her earliest matin sing,
And woo the dew-bath'd zephyrs on the wing;

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Fast by yon shed, of roots and verdure made,
Where we have paus'd, companions of the shade
In yonder cot just seated on the brow,
Whence, unobserv'd, we view'd the world below;
Whence oft we cull'd fit objects for our song,
From land or ocean widely stretch'd along;
The morning vapours passing thro' the vale,
The distant turret or the lessening sail,
The pointed cliff which overhangs the main,
The breezy upland, or the opening plain;
The misty traveller yet dimly seen,
And every hut which neighbours on the green,
Or down yon foot-way saunter'd by the stream,
Whose little rills ran tinkling to the theme,
More softly touch'd the woe in Hammond's lay,
Or laps'd responsive to the lyre of Gray;
O'er these dear bounds like one forlorn I roam,
O'er these dear bounds, I fondly call'd my home.