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Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;


Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

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