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,