NOT lovelier to the bard's enamoured gaze, Winded Italian Mincio o'er its bed, By whispering reeds o'erhung, when calmly led To meditate what rural life displays; Trees statelier do not canopy with gloom The brooks of Valombrosa; nor do flowers, Beneath Ausonia's sky that seldom lowers, Empurple deep-dyed Brenta's banks with bloom Fairer than thine at sweet Lasswade: so bright Thou gleam'st, a mirror for the cooing dove, That sidelong eyes its purpling form with love Well pleased; 'mid blossomy brakes, with bosom light, All day the linnet carols; and, from grove, The blackbird sings to thee at fall of night. |