Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay woodbine;
Where the moss droops low from the green oak tree—
Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me!
The snowy flower of the orange there
Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air;
And the Indian rose delights to twine
Its branches with the laughing vine.
There the deer leaps light through the open glade,
Or hides him far in the forest shade,
When the woods resound in the dewy morn