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Terror-full and shaking, The sallowy kite hovers; The wolf digs his fangs, Drinks up the blood.

Here may be heard the din of rivers, and ancient winds which have long since lost their names sough through our woods;—the first faint sounds of spring, older than the summer of Athenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the wood, the jay's scream, and blue-bird's warble, and the hum of "bees that fly About the laughing blossoms of sallowy."