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They reckon ill who leave Me out! When me they fly—I am the Wings! I am the Doubter and the Doubt; And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.—R. W. Emerson At that more sombre season called Opora, which fills the interval between the rising of Sirius and the rising of Arcturus, when the cycled year dying as the ph??nix, forest-leaves glow red- reflective of the conflagration, and birds fly migratory from the world-wide majesty of the pyre—I passed on horse-back over the blue and high-surging undulations of the Orchat Mountains, whose broad swell is as the Eastern heave of a jeweled bosom; thence through lower- lying slopes, and delicious groves of citron, almond, and maple; and thence through a seine of streams, over-waved by that bulbous Nile-lily which the Greeks called “lotus”; till, entering the domain of Phorfor, I drew up, as night fell, at the entrance of the far-reaching castle by the sea. The |
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