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[245] But the mighty forest was broken
     By many a steepled town,
By many a white-walled farm-house,
     And many a garner brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels,
     The stream no more ran free;
White sails on the winding river,
     White sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village
     The flags were floating gay,
And shone on a thousand faces
     The light of a holiday.

Swiftly the rival ploughmen
     Turned the brown earth from their shares;
Here were the farmer's treasures,
     There were the craftsman's wares.

Golden the goodwife's butter,
     Ruby her currant-wine;
Grand were the strutting turkeys,
     Fat were the beeves and swine.

Yellow and red were the apples,
     And the ripe pears russet-brown,
And the peaches had stolen blushes
     From the girls who shook them down.

And with blooms of hill and wildwood,
     That shame the toil of art,
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms
     Of the garden's tropic heart.

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