Clothed in rich garments of a thousand stains—
Blue, crimson, gold, green, azure, purple flowers,
Given in profusion by the beauteous showers.
I have heard stories of thy place of birth,—
Oh! wind, that sheddest beauty on the earth!—
Which make me sad, to think my life must glide
Slowly and coldly by the Atlantic’s side.
Thine are the “happy valleys” of our land,
Shut in by mountains, and the South-sea strand;
They never feel the tyranny of frost;