'Mid the far, fair hills, beneath the pines
With their carpet of needles, soft and brown.
Dwells the precious scent of rare old wines.
Where the sun's distilling rays pour down:
Away from the city, mile on mile,
Far up in the hills where life's worth while.
There the rivulet in gladness leaps
Down a fronded valley, sweet and cool,
Or pausing a little moment sleeps
In a mossy, rock-bound, limpid pool: