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STRONG climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stormy gloom is rolled;
The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sunflower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famished fox

Complains that Sol is slow

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils in light the snake;
And here the fire-tuft hath begun

Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane.

For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

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This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming
And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day
Look down on earth secure,
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature ;--

A world not scorned by Him who made
Even weakness by His might;

But solemn in His depth of shade,
And splendid in His light.
Light! not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,
Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land-
A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand.

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