That short-lived sorrow should a harvest yield
Of rich, enduring bliss? [Music heard at a distance.
Hark! ’tis the gondola
That waits to bear me hence. I must not linger.
Come with me for a space; and as we go
I’ll tell thee of my hopes—hopes that will banish
Intrusive fear, and clothe the rugged peaks
Of wild Helvetia’s Alps with smiles and flowers,
Breathing Elysian fragrance o’er their snows! [Exeunt.