The painted semblance of some Lady Blanche,
Or rose-lipped Maude, or Eleanore looks down,
Long since enveloped in the robes of death.
In summer, when the luscious peach is ripe,
Through the great windows opening westward lie
Delicious prospects; lawns and wooded slopes,
Orchards of grapes—and o’er the tree-tops high
The glittering ocean backed by sunset skies,
With gold and amethystine vapors hung.