Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d
By the sweet winds of my sunny land?
Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines?
And hast thou rested beneath its vines?
Hast thou heard the music still wandering by,
A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky,
Floating away o’er hill and heath,
With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath?
Then say, are there fairer vales than those
Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows?