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Where the birds are blithely singing, 
Where the flowers are gaily springing, 
Where the bee its course is winging, 
There, if there thou now may’st be, 
Anxious thought is following thee! 
In the lowly peasant’s cot, 
Quiet refuge of content; 
In the sheltered, grass-grown spot, 
Resting, when with travel spent, 
Where the vine its tendrils curling, 
Where the trees their boughs are furling, 
Where the streamlet clear is purling, 
There, if there thou now may’st be, 
There my spirit follows thee! 
In the city’s busy mart, 
Mingling with its restless crowd; 
’Mid the miracles of art, 
Classic pile, and column proud; 
