Sweet as a fairy’s lute, soft as a passing sigh.
The strain he sung, was some antique romance,
Some long forgotten song of other years;
Born in the cloudless clime of sunny France,
Where Earth, in vernal loveliness appears;
Where the bright grape [folio 4] distils its purple tears;
And clear streams flow, and dim, blue hills arise
A gleaming crown of snows Each mountain wears;
And there are cities, ’neath her starry skies,
As fair as ever blest, with beauty, mortal eyes.