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KISSED by cerulean waters, Clarens sleeps,
Her head high pillowed on soft Alpine snows,
Where the dark-winding Rhone impetuous flows
Into Lake Leman, and in frenzy weeps,
Hid in her billowy bosom, in whose deeps
Fury is vain, - even its turbid hue,
In journeyings begrimed, and torrent-leaps,
Is changed by magic to translucent blue.
Thy terraces how beautiful! thy hills,
With ivied oaks and sweet rose-laurel crowned;
Thy chestnut coppices, where passion found
Sweet solace, soothed by waterfalls and rills,
Inhaling incense, mountain dew distils,
And ravished by the loveliness around.
A. L. H.
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