Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be
That these but charm us with destructive wiles?
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee
Danger is mask’d in beauty—death in smiles?
Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore,
Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore!
There, year by year, that secret peril spreads,
Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign,
And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds,
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain;