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THE RIVER NEAR TO GREZ         63
The love I hold was borne by her ;
And now, though far away, My lonely spirit hears the stir Of water round the starling spur
Beside the bridge at Grez.
So may that love forever hold
In life an equal pace ; So may that love grow never old, But, clear and pure and fountain-cold,
Go on from grace to grace.
IT'S FORTH ACROSS THE ROARING FOAM
IT'S forth across the  roaring foam, and on towards
the west, It's many a lonely league  from home, o'er many a
mountain crest, From  where  the dogs of  Scotland call  the   sheep
around the fold, To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold.
Where all the deep-sea galleons ride that come to
bring the corn, Where falls the fog at eventide and blows the breeze
at morn;