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Thou wilt find no leafy screen 
From the noontide’s piercing sheen, 
And at eve no fairy home, 
Like the lily’s golden dome. 
Here, where hunger’s eager pain 
Pleads at plenty’s door in vain, 
Or, if heard, too often must, 
Feel the scorn that flings the crust, 
Thou, gay rover, scarce shalt find 
Chartered feast or welcome kind; 
For if man to man’s austere, 
What hast thou to hope for here 2 
Haste thee, then, where skies are fair, 
Fresh as Spring’s the Summer air, 
Bright as tears affection sheds, 
Dews that gem the violet beds, 
Pure as morn the perfumed breeze, 
Sweet the sylvan melodies, 
Soft the glow o’er hill and glade, 
Cool their very noontide shade, 
And where all of earth and air 
Freely nature’s banquets share ! 
Hold thee, now! the bright-winged cries; 
Cease thy rural rhapsodies, 
Till I briefly tell thee why 
Hither I came dancing by. 
Seest thou all the vista gay 
Thronged with fashion’s proud array ? 






























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