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58

WOLFE OF THE KNOLL.

But one poor bush that decks our cottage-mound,
  My mother's constant care,
Than all these palms with grace and beauty crowned,
  Were to my eye more fair.

Here brightly blooming flowers of countless dyes
  Wide gardens gayly paint;
Sadly I view them with unjoying eyes,
  Till with their perfume faint.

Oh, give me but for these the pale wild rose
  Found once in many a day
Among our downs, in some deep fold hid close,
  Where childhood loved to stray.

Cease, cease thy mournful plaint, O nightingale,
  Singing in yonder tree!
Not half so dear thy song as the familiar wail
  Of my own native sea.