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     Down the hill-slope murmuring on,
Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth
     O'er the sloping hill,
Beautiful and freshly springeth
     That soft-flowing rill,
Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,
     Gushing up to sun and air.

Brighter waters sparkled never
     In that magic well,
Of whose gift of life forever
     Ancient legends tell,
In the lonely desert wasted,
     And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian
     Sought with longing eyes,
Underneath the bright pavilion
     Of the Indian skies,
Where his forest pathway lay
     Through the blooms of Florida.

Years ago a lonely stranger,
     With the dusky brow
Of the outcast forest-ranger,
     Crossed the swift Powow,
And betook him to the rill
     And the oak upon the hill.

O'er his face of moody sadness
     For an instant shone

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