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Sleep, Venice, sleep! the evening gun resounds Over the waves that rock thee on their breast: The bugle blare to kennel calls the hounds Who sleepless watch thy waking and thy rest. Sleep till the night-stars do the day-star meet, And shuddering echoes o'er the water run, Rippling through every glass-green, wavering street The stern good-morrow of thy guardian Hun.
"The gray light that hides the night-stars was creeping through the forests, and the wind the Sun sends to warn the people of his coming was among the fir tops. Flowers, on slender stems, bent their heads out of respect for the herald-wind's Master, and from the dead top of a pine-tree the Yellowhammer beat upon his drum and called 'the Sun is awake all hail the Sun!
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