———
Come, altho’ fair is thy southern clime,
Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek,
And the stars come forth at the vesper chime,
With a beauty no tongue may speak;
Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy brow
As it slumbered in hours of yore;
And the night bird’s song has the same tone now
In thy life’s bright spring that it bore;
Come, tho’ from streamlet, from hill, and from plain,