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ON the breeze-blown bough of a mountain tree,
Breathing the air of the sky and sea,
Fluttered a little bird.
And he sang at the sunbeams with twittering glee,
While only the rivulet heard.
But a Djin came down with a gloaming shroud, -
Breathless the leaflets hung and bowed,
Chilled by his mantle dun, -
And the weird witch-dance of the wraiths of cloud
Enchanted the rays of the sun.
The storm is o'er; the tempest-folk
Have shot their shafts; the ravens croak,
Follow the brook to sea, -
But the bird is perched on the riven oak,
And carols there merrily.
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