Page:The Forest Sanctuary.pdf/173

Rh

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, And the pine forests, and the olive shades? —Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams? —Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!   I might not languish then by these chill streams, Far from my own bright land!