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I bind the caverns of the sea with hair,
Glossy, and long, and rich as kings' estate;
I polish the green ice, and gleam the wall
With the white frost, and leaf the brown trees tall.
THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.
WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,
A deep delight the bosom thrills,
No appanage of human kind,
Tents of a camp that never shall be raised
On which four thousand years have
Ye ploughshares sparkling on the slopes!
Ye snow-white lambs that trip
Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
All that the fertile valley shields;
Of life's uneasy game the stake,
O care! O guilt! O vales and
plains, Here, mid his own unvexed domains,