Ganges, and Hermus, o’er their beds of gold,
Nor Ind, nor Bactra, nor the blissful land
Where incense spreads o’er rich Panchaia’s sand,
Nor all that fancy paints in fabled lays,
O native Italy! transcend thy praise.
Though here no bulls beneath the enchanted yoke
With fiery nostril o’er the furrow smoke,
No hydra teeth embattled harvest yield,
Spear and bright helmet bristling o’er the field;
Yet golden corn each laughing valley fills,