Who loves not? And who blesses not the light,
When through some loop-hole he surveys the lake
Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set
With châteaux, villages and village-spires,
Orchards and vineyards, alps and alpine snows?
Here would I dwell; nor visit, but in thought,
Ferney far South, silent and empty now,
As now thy once-luxurious bowers, Ripaille;
Vevey, so long an exiled Patriot’s home;
Or Chillon’s dungeon-floors beneath the wave,