THERE are countless fields the green earth o'er,
Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore;
Where hostile ranks in their grim array,
With the battle's smoke have obscured the day;
...
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Like the ancient Grecian marbles, |
O Thou who once on earth beneath the weight |
The Paint-King, envious of his cunning art, |
Upon his canvas Nature starts to life, |
A draught from Helicon could once inspire |
As when untaught and blind, |
Maiden! in whose kindling eye, |
"How the shadow the Ideal throws before it |
O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year, |