When the summer day we bore
Air which burned and earth which glowed,
On the broad lake’s glorious shore;
Droopingly your comrade trode;
Where from the oak-boughs o’er us flung,
The clasping vine’s rich clusters hung,
And the dark Italian laughed
While the full grape’s juice we quaffed,
The gladness he had given to see;
Save you, we came so wearily;