High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,
And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know’st thou it well?
There, there, with thee,
O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.
Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say—“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?”
Know’st thou it well?