And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
’Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the land of the Sun—
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.