In the green groves of the orange and lime.
Then was the silver lute
Of the young maiden mute,
When, from the shade of her own cottage-eaves,
Rang first thy joyous trill,
While, with a gentle thrill,
Tho’ the breeze stirred them not, shivered the leaves.
Thou, like a spirit, come
From thy far island-home,
Seemest of spring-time and sunshine the voice.