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A thousand hallowed memories, fondly kept,
That waken oft afresh. E'en while he treads,
With heedful musings, old historic ground,
Rich with the spoils of Time, where crumbling stand
The hoary monuments of glories dead;
Or climbs 'mid Alpine wonders, and surveys
Rude wilds where Nature all untamed abides;
In search of thee his truant thought will stray.
Or if he tempt the main, far, far away
Swept by the breeze across the heaving deep,
Fixed on his lonely watch at midnight hour,
The watery waste around, the stars above,
Back o'er the flood he roams to visit thee.
For thee the captive sighs in the still gloom
Of his dim cell. The warrior grim, what time
He treads the battle-field where marshalled hosts
Await the bloody fray—pride on his brow
And glory on his crest—lets fall a tear,
While o'er him steal, like flute-notes faintly heard,
Remembrances thick-coming of thy joys.
Dear rest and centre thou of faithful hearts,