When June with its roses is swaying.

’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue

And music forever is flowing:

While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through

Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,

As the south wind o’er water when blowing.

There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,

Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;

Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile,

Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile,