III

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III

Along the river’s stony marge

The Sand-lark chants a joyous song;

The Thrush is busy in the wood,

And carols loud and strong.

A thousand Lambs are on the rocks,

All newly born! both earth and sky

Keep jubilee; and more than all,

Those Boys with their green Coronal;

They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.