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O, THINK of the days when the crag’s hoary masses |
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Bent o’er one green forest in Houra’s wild passes, |
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When the gray wolf was king of the forest and mountain, |
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And the red deer ran free by the blue torrent’s shore, |
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When the prey scarcely rested at eve by the fountain, |
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Swept on by the spear of the wild creachadore! |
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’T was a brave time, a wild time,—the hills seem to mourn |
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Till the splendor of glade and of forest return; |
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Yet is there not splendor as wild and as shaggy, |
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Where the huge blasted roots of that forest remain, |
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Wide spread o’er each deep cave and precipice craggy, |
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Sending scions of strength to the blue sky again? |
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Afar where Molama in thunder is flowing, |
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Afar in Gleneigh are these strong scions growing,— |
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They spring from the stream and they tower from the ledges |
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Of the huge rocks which frown o’er that wild fairy dell; |
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Like young guardian giants encircling the edges |
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Of the deep, silent pool and the moss-wreathéd well. |
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How thick in the summer their green leaves were shining! |
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How sear and how scattered at autumn’s declining! |
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But the wild hills shall see them far greener than ever, |
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When winter hath fled from the bright smiles of May; |
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Ah! thus should Adversity’s children endeavor |
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To breast the rude blasts, like the oaks of Gleneigh! |