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When the last flush of eve is dying
    On boundless lakes afar that shine;
When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
    And fragrance breathes from every pine:4[1]
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming,
    And fire-flies wander bright and free,
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,
    My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!

Alone o'er green savannas roving,
    Where some broad stream in silence flows,
Or through th' eternal forests moving,
    One only home my spirit knows!
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted!
    To thee on sleep's light wing I fly;
But happier could the weary-hearted
    Look on his own blue hills and die!

  1. 4The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers.