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THE SOUTH. 301 
When daylight melts and stars are few, 
And west winds frame a drowsy tune, 
Till all the charméd waters sleep 
Beneath a yellow moon! 
Here men may dwell, and mock at toil, 
And all the dull mechanic arts; 
No need to till the teeming soil, 
With weary hands, and aching hearts ; 
No want can follow folded palms, 
For Nature doth supply her alms 
With sweets purveyors cannot bring 
To grace the table of a King; 
While Summer broods o’er land and sea, 
And breathes in all the winds, 
Until her presence fills their hearts, 
And moulds their happy minds! 
















