Bends o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some Blessed Isle;
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.
The very whispers of the Wind have there
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear
Greeting from some bright shore,
Where none have said Farewell!—where no decay
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day;