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THE MEET OF THE WINDS.

Aha! see now each smooth-cheeked Cyprian stoop,

And, shivering, the myrtle pale and yield!

Far in the Northland, in the sharp white light,

Its clear-cut pinnacle my palace rears;

With myriad glancing spirits of the Right,

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Cleanse I the world of hopes and lies and fears!

He ceased; and all the silvered forest, trembling, bowed;

The mystic shadows vanished and the far seemed near,

Nor won the lake a charm from changing moon or cloud,

But all eternal seemed, and each in beauty peer.

Soft, and hear me, - from the East advancing,

Come I from the lands of rich Cathay;

Fair-limbed nymphs of air are ever dancing

In the gardens where I hold my sway;

Ne'er we hear of toiling or of weeping,

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