On the far-sweeping river, and the shades
Which, in their undulating motion, speak
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born,
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands
Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs
Have changed our mien; but this, our blessèd land,
Hath gain’d but richer beauty since we bade
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus?
Thy brow is clouded.
Gon. To mine eye the scene