The sons of Italy were surely blest.

Whatever fruits in different climes are found,

That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,

Whose bright succession decks the varied year:

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky,

With vernal leaves that blossom but to die:

[p58]
These here disporting, own the kindred soil,

Nor ask luxuriance from their planter’s toil;

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,