Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing,
Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows,
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows,
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! ’tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale;