That isle is now as lovely as of yore,
Gay Nature smiles as sweetly, the wild air
Is resonant with music; the green shore
Exhales a constant fragrance, sweet and rare,
But those who made its borders still more fair,
Have slept the sleep of death, long years ago,
Yet is their memory fresh, and ever there
The pilgrim's heart will feel the thought of woe,
His eye will blend a tear with yon fair river's flow.
[E] Transcriber's note: Spelling is different in the title of the poem; both have been kept as in the original.