Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
An Eden and a Paradise to me.
Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
In search of odours from the orange bowers?
Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee
Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?
And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong
'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,