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Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree,

Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol.

Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages,

Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,

Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,

Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers*

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

. . come l gru van cantando lor lai,
Facendo in aer di sé lunga riga.

Dante.

PROMETHEUS,

OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT.

Of Prometheus, how undaunted
On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told and songs are chaunted,
Full of promptings and suggestions.

Beautiful is the tradition

Of that flight through heavenly portals, The old classic superstition Of the theft and the transmission

Of the fire of the Immortals!

First the deed of noble daring,
Born of heavenward aspiration,

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