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There dwells the mistress of his heart, And Love, who teaches every art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her favourite flowrets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags abrupt, and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine-berry peeps, And, blushing, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stored, Prepared for him by hands adored, Is all the little luxury he knows: And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose.