Her cheek is fair,
Fair as the lily, when, at dawning day,
Tinged with the morning's bright and purple ray,
Yonder scented groves among
She will listen to your song.
In yonder bower where roses bloom,
Where the myrtle breathes perfume,
You shall at your ease recline,
And sip the soul-enlivening wine;
There the lyre, with melting lay,