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The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems

Allston, Washington (1779-1843)

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16

Now at the castle's massy gate,
Like one that's blindly urged by fate,
A bugle-horn I blew.
The mountain-plain it shook around,
The vales return'd a hollow sound,
And, moving with a sigh profound,
The portals open flew.
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