Came the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—
Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,
Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;
Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toil
Renewed the strength that dressed his native soil,
While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,
With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.
OH, WOULD I WERE A CHILD!
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