Guido. But that sweet spot was sacred, love, to thee,
Thou wert the deity of its green beauty:
Its solitude was given to fond dreams
A lover's dreams of thee. It was a dell
Just midway up a wood-girt mountain; oaks,
Beeches, and darkling chesnuts, and old pines,
Amid whose leaves the wind was musical,
Guarded it round; save in one open place,
A rocky point, from whence the eye might rove
O'er cornfields in their yellow wealth, o'er plains
Where wandered a fair river, olive groves,
The sun tipt minarets, some cottages,
Heaths wandering off in barrenness, yet sweet
With bee-sought wild flowers, just a shadowy glance
Of a far city with tall battlements;
And to the east was spread the glorious sea,
Bounded and canopied by the blue sky:—
There is no entrance but by a rough path
Thro' the black forest, narrow and scarce known;
When suddenly the gloomy trees give way,
And azure gleamings come through the soft boughs
Of white-flowered myrtles and the pink acacia,
And the glade is illumined suddenly
By blushes from ten thousand crimson roses,
Nature's own beautiful and fragrant lamps;
And there is turf beneath, soft scented turf,
Mingled with thyme and violets. My Ianthe,
What a sweet home we might find there!
Ianthe. Dear Guido,
I should be happy as the lark at morning.
I do love the fresh air, the pleasant buds,
The song of the glad birds, the forest trees;
The lights the music of the carnival,
