Thy groves are in perpetual bloom,
And Love’s own wing fans the bright bowers
Of orange, bergamot and broom.
O’er all this region of delight
Spring reigns like one unending day,
No storms its opening blossoms blight,
Nor shades on its pure waters play.
“And when the orb of day hath gone
Down o’er Morena’s dusky height,
How beautiful the stars come on,