While heroes fell, and domes and temples burned.
But now before them happier scenes arise,
Elysian vales salute their ravished eyes;
Olive, and cedar, formed a grateful shade,
Where light, with gay romantic error, strayed:
The myrtles here with fond caresses twine,
There, rich with nectar, melts the pregnant vine:
And lo! the stream, renowned in classic song,
Sad Lethe, glides the silent vale along.
On mossy banks, beneath the citron grove,