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Echo, in her airy round

O’er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound,

Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,

Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand

Midway in the marshy pool.
But from mountain, dell, or stream,

Not a fluttering zephyr springs:
Fearful lest the noontide beam

Scorch its soft, its silken wings. Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd-serene—and still ! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises every fainting flower. Now the hill-the hedge-is green,

Now the warblers' throats in tune! Blithsome is the verdant scene,

Brighten'd by the beams of noon!

EVENING.

O’ER the heath the heifer strays

Free (the furrow'd task is done);Now the village windows blaze,

Burnish'd by the setting sun.

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