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The billowy River rolls its proudest wave,
The zephyrs have fled, dancing, o'er the hills,
And the winds tread the waters, wildly-grave,
Like the Storm-Harpists gliding down the rills
Of their own native mountains, 'gainst their wills.
Brighter the moon above us; brighter all
The patient stars, whose pensive beauty thrills
Our yearning souls, like distant tones that fall
On waiting ears hearkening for an Angel's call.
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