Teem with luxuriance of sweet fruits for food;
The rapid and resounding flood
That rushes downward from the mountain
Flows here, will here for ever flow,
Diminished to a silver fountain
That sings its way o’er golden sands,
Fringed by the lily and young violet.
Here hast thou all a placid soul demands!
What wouldst thou more? Or, canst thou still regret
A barren world, which only lures and juggles