The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers,
This hand would lead thee, listen!—A deep vale,
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!
A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,