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"It passed, that vision
of the Ocean's might!
I know not how, for in my slumbering mind
There was no movement, all was shifting light,
Through which we floated with the wandering wind;
And, still together, in a different scene,
We looked on England's woodland, fresh and green.
No perfume of the cultured rose was there,
Wooing the senses with its garden smell, -
Nor snow-white lily, - called so proudly fir,
Though by the poor man's cot she loves to dwell,
Nor finds his little garden scant of room
To bid her stately buds in beauty bloom; -
Nor jasmin, with her pale stars shining through
The myrtle darkness of her leaf's green hue, -
Nor heliotrope, whose grey and heavy wreath
Mimics the orchard blossoms' fruity breath, -
Nor clustering dahlia, with its scentless flowers
Cheating the heart through autumn's faded hours, -
Nor bright chrysanthimum, whose trained array
Still makes the rich man's winter path look gay,
And bows its hardy head when wild winds blow,
To free its petals from the fallen snow; -
Nor yet carnation;" -
(Thou, beloved of all
The plants that thrive at Art or Nature's call,
By one who greets thee with a weary sigh
As the dear friend of happy days gone by;
By one who names thee last, but loves thee first,
Of all the flowers a garden ever nursed;
The mute remembrancer and gentle token
Of links which heavy hands have roughly broken,
Welcomed through many a Summer with the same
Unaltered gladness as when first ye came,
And welcomed still, though - as in later years
We often welcome pleasant things - with tears!)
I wander! In the Dream these had no place, -
Nor Sorrow: - all was Nature's freshest grace.
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