By woods of silvered green.
The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe
In that golden country, where
Through fragrant meads the pathways lead.
Wouldst see God's handiwork indeed?
Go view the sunset there!
'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue,
In melting colors rare:
Church domes in crimson waves are dyed,
And everything seems glorified—